Names Have Power
by ChangelingRin
Summary: Your name is Stephen Strange, and this is your story. [An in-depth examination of Stephen Strange during the movie and possible future events. Gets into the reasons behind the things Stephen does and the laws of the universe he's in. Now branching into post-movie territory]
1. Chapter 1

Your name is Stephen Strange and your life is perfect.

You work at a prestigious hospital. You are considered the best in your field. There is a waiting list a mile long of people who want you to work on them.

You are respected, revered, practically worshipped. When you stride down the hallways of the ICU, people move to let you pass. You hear them whisper as you walk by: _There's Stephen Strange. He saved another life last week. How many is that now?_

You have a perfect record. You have never lost a patient and you never intend to. You do everything in your power to make sure of that; you have never taken a high-risk case. And it makes sense, you think. There is only so much of you to go around. You have to be selective about who you accept, because you can't accept everyone.

So you strike a deal with your assistant. You preview every case that comes your way to make sure that it is worth your time. If it isn't, you pass it along. The less-experienced surgeons are always thrilled to be given a patient by you. They think it represents your approval.

They are wrong. You simply don't care enough to spend your time on a simple, easily-fixed brain tumor. There are more interesting cases waiting for you. Ones more worthy of your talent.

And you are talented. Extremely so. No one can ever deny to you that you are skilled. You take pride in this, because even your naysayers are forced to admit your superiority. No one can say that Stephen Strange is not good at what he does.

You are the one that the less-experienced surgeons come to when they have a problem with a patient. Sometimes you listen, if it interests you. More often, you don't, because the answer is obvious and boring. You tell the hopeful surgeon to ask someone else, because you don't have the time. You suggest Nick. Nick needs some more padding to his reputation, you think. He will gladly take the less interesting cases from you.

Nick, for some reason, does not like you. But you ignore him. He never holds your interest for very long.

You are on the list of 'Most Eligible Doctors' that the females of your profession have made in their free time as a joke to each other. You don't bother hiding the fact that you know. It makes getting what you want easier, when all you need to do is make eye contact and smile. You get twice as much vacation time that way.

You also get Christine. At least, until she leaves you. But you still see her, every day in the ICU. She is friendly with you, and you respond in kind. You are still attracted to her, but decide not to push. She will come back, you reason. There's no reason for her not to. But you know that she is stubborn and chasing her will only serve to make her more determined to stay away. You also know that she still holds a candle for you. You will give the candle time to burn, you decide. Eventually she will need someone to put out the flame, and you will be right there to provide the relief.

Your home is a penthouse flat. Your windows overlook the skyline of New York. You own a grand piano and a fully tailored wardrobe. There are three cars in your garage, each more expensive than the last. Your watch collection could give Tony Stark's a run for his money.

You spend your evenings sipping imported wine and admiring your art collection.

People invite you to speak, at conventions and gatherings of other, high end doctors. You always accept, unless it suits you not to. Sometimes the topics simply don't interest you, or the people you would speak to simply aren't on the same level as you. When you do speak, the room is always packed. You receive standing ovations at the end.

You are brilliant. A genius. You have a nearly perfect eidetic memory and you learn faster than anyone else you know. At some point you ran out of things that interested you, so you turned to music. You have created a game to play during operations. You have not been wrong once.

People envy you. You let them. You would envy yourself too, if you weren't already you. Your life is perfect.

You are invited to speak again. You scan the guest list, peruse the topic of the night. You approve. It seems to be worth your time.

You select your suit, your watch, your car. You drive down the twisting road. You ignore the speed limit. The car you are driving has an engine with 750 horsepower. It is a shame, you have always thought, to drive slowly in such a machine.

Your phone rings. Your assistant has sent you the next batch of possible patients. You take your eyes off the road and scan the images he attached.

You do not see the car coming the other way. Due to the steep curve in the road, the other car does not see you either.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and in the span of sixteen seconds, your life falls apart.

* * *

 **...Yeah. Technically, it IS in second person, but it wanted to be! I swear, I tried to write it another way and it just kept coming back to this, and...**

 **I'm very sorry. Just, nobody tell the moderators and everything will be cool, okay? Okay.**

 **That said! Yes, this is** _ **kinda**_ **a novelization of the movie, but I'm gonna be going** _ **very**_ **in-depth to Stephen's thoughts and reactions and I'm going to be taking the plot on a little spin of my own once we get past canonically established events. So hopefully, it should still be interesting. I've tried very hard not to be the person who word-for-word writes out the script of something and calls it a story when there's nothing original about it, so here's hoping I succeeded.**

 **So, review if you want, Follow if it suits you, and even Favorite if you think it's worth it. I never know what people will like about my writing until they do, anyways.**

 **And hey, maybe I'll even manage a regular update schedule this time. These chapters are fairly short, so what do you all think about Mondays and Fridays?**

 **Changeling**


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is Stephen Strange and you are in agony.

You wake up in a hospital bed. You are immediately aware that something is wrong. You are supposed to be standing over this bed, not in it.

Your face hurts. Your arms hurt. Your legs hurt. Your hands hurt. Everything hurts, actually. You wonder what happened.

You remember the crash. You shudder.

You peel your eyes open. The first thing you see is Christine, sitting in a bedside chair. She is watching you with anguish and relief battling for supremacy on her face. You blink. It hurts.

The second thing – or rather, things – you see are your hands. They are mutilated shadows of what they used to be. You stare. Anger begins to bubble. You try to move one – it barely responds.

 _What did they do_ , you say, fury and fear mixing in your voice and creating a cracked, low rumble. You listen to Christine's explanation and something in your chest snaps. You stare down, unseeing, at your fingers. You do not recognize them. These are not your hands.

Christine tells you that they did everything they could. She is lying, you think. You don't say it out loud, but you say it in other ways. If someone had tried just a bit harder, your hands would still be recognizable.

 _No one could have done better_ , Christine tells you.

 _I could have_ , you say. Because it's true. You are Doctor Stephen Strange and you are the best surgeon there is.

Not anymore, your hands tell you. Not anymore.

You close your eyes. You don't notice when Christine leaves.

* * *

Christine comes back. She helps you eat, helps you shave. She is there almost every day. Of course she is, you think, she works here. Like you used to.

You begin to resent her for coming. It reminds you of what you've lost.

Your hands are not the only things that are damaged. Your car went off the side of a mountain, you remember. At least two of your ribs are cracked and one of your legs has a hairline fracture. You have a concussion from when the airbag slammed into you. You have stitches in your lower lip and quite a few other places too.

You are going to be in this hospital bed for a long time. You want to scream.

* * *

Months pass. Your bones heal, your concussion fades. The stitches were taken out long ago. But your hands still won't respond to your commands. You try not to look at them.

When they finally take the bandages off, your fingers shake when you try to move them. Then they shake when you don't. It feels like cotton between your joints, rubber bands in your muscles, preventing you from moving your hands the way you want to. And they shake. You can't make them stop.

It takes you fifteen agonizing, trembling-filled seconds to clench your fingers into a fist. It shakes, too.

You know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you will never hold a scalpel again. You've known since you woke up months ago.

But you lock that thought away in the corners of your mind and bury the key beneath your plans for retroactive surgery. Because you refuse to let your life crumble away like this. There is a way to fix your hands, you are sure of it. You just need to find it.

Christine doesn't say much when you tell her of your plans. She simply nods, unsmiling, and helps you hold your spoon.

* * *

You spend weeks hunting down doctors, procedures, and payment methods and spend even longer undergoing and recovering from them. Nothing seems to work. No matter what you try, your hands remain barely responsive and useless.

Despite your best efforts, they still have not stopped shaking. You are beginning to think that maybe they never will.

You still live in your penthouse flat, but it does not look the same. You no longer have a job. You needed other ways to pay for your operations.

Nowadays, your house is empty except for you, a table, and a chair.

Christine still visits you, nearly every day. You don't know why she bothers. You are hardly worth her attention anymore.

Maybe that is why, you think. Maybe she hopes that you will love her if she shows affection for you. That was one of her reasons for breaking up, you remember. She said that you didn't love her the way she loved you.

She is helping you because she sees an opportunity, you think. Anger bubbles up. You lash out.

 _You care SO much, don't you!?_

Christine has been trying to smile for you, these past few months. She is not smiling now.

She picks up her purse. She turns around. She walks out the door and closes it behind her. She does not come back.

You are left alone in your empty house. It seems emptier now that you are the only one in it. But you ignore this feeling and place your hands on the windows that look out over the New York skyline.

They shake.

* * *

You suspect that you have driven Christine away, for good, but this thought is unimportant compared to regaining your hands. You no longer have the money to afford surgery, so you are forced to turn to physical therapy.

You dislike your trainer. You have a feeling that he dislikes you just as much. But your progress is so infuriatingly slow that it is almost indistinguishable from being nonexistent. You do not have time to spend years on exercises that produce results more slowly than a sloth on nitrous oxide.

Your trainer picks up on your frustration. You are surprised he didn't see it sooner. Rather, you are surprised that he did not act on it sooner. He has shown an increasing amount of intolerance for you ever since you met.

He snaps, one day, when you express your fury at your lack of progress and tells you about a man who made an impossible recovery. He says it with the intent of shutting you up, but you demand proof. He is telling you about a complete severing of the spinal cord and the man who is somehow still walking afterwards. Everything you have ever learned about the human body insists that such a thing can't exist.

One week later, you receive a file from your rehab trainer. Jonathan Pangborn suffered from complete paralysis from the waist down and partial paralysis in his forearms and hands. Recovery should have been impossible. Yet, it wasn't.

You stare at the words on the page. His nerve damage was worse than yours. He made a full recovery.

You need to find this man.

It takes you another two weeks. Two, frustrating, and nigh unbearable weeks. But you eventually track him down at an outdoor basketball court. He is playing three-on-three. He is winning.

Your definition of impossible has slapped you in the face and gone cliff diving. Then you shake off your astonishment and flag the man down. You explain who you are and why you've sought him out and you hold up your hands, which tremble. Pangborn meets your eyes neutrally.

He's sizing you up, you think, but then the moment passes and Pangborn calls a quick time out so he can talk to you. He tells you of a place called Kamar-Taj in the mountains of Tibet, where he learned to harness a force beyond human understanding and in turn, was able to walk again. You are skeptical. This sounds like the meditation-voodoo-magical nonsense that people swear by but never see any results from. But Pangborn simply looks at you, levelly, and you cannot see any trace of a lie on his face.

So, despite your misgivings, you thank him for his information. The next day, you scrounge up the very last of your money and purchase a plane ticket to Asia.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you have just left behind everything you have ever known.

* * *

 **Whoo, that got angsty. Wonder if I should have put that in the categories.**

 **...Nah, not enough angst in here for that.**

 **So this thing I've got going, where the actual words people say are italicized rather than quoted. Is that working for you all? I personally feel like it adds something different to the narrative, but I can change it if it's bothersome.**

 **Let me know, I guess.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **MelancholyMelody1995,** **Scarlett Burns, Quelqu'un de curieux, Noxy the Proxy,** **and** **Rouge Singer** **for favoriting/following!**

* * *

 **Guest: Well, who wouldn't? It's a good movie.**


	3. Chapter 3

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you have absolutely no idea how to navigate Tibet.

You should have bought a map, you decide, but you spent the last of your money on the getting here. Even with the currency conversion, you don't have all that much on you.

You spend the next week wandering aimlessly through the various towns and villages, and asking for Kamar-Taj in what you know is likely a very butchered pronunciation. Nobody seems to know what you are talking about.

You are stubborn. You don't give up easily. You keep trying.

You keep failing. After a while, you simply don't care where you are going so long as you are moving. As long as you are moving, there is someone new to ask about Kamar-Taj, someone new who might know what you are talking about. You receive strange looks as you move through the crowds; you are a head and a half taller than anyone around you and you stand out like a sore thumb.

You cannot bring yourself to care.

You realize that not paying attention to your surroundings is a bad idea. You discover this when you inadvertently walk through an alleyway and become the target of a mugging. At first, you aren't all that bothered. There is nothing you own that has any value anymore.

The robbers don't think so. They want the watch on your wrist.

You had forgotten about the watch, if you are honest with yourself. But now that you remember its existence, you cannot give it up. It is, quite literally, all you have.

You make a stupid decision and punch one of the robbers in the face. His gang does not take kindly to that. They beat you to the ground. You vaguely wonder why you didn't try to run instead.

A sudden commotion breaks out over your head. You look up and see a hooded figure fight off the bandits with an ease that you find yourself envying. You sincerely hope that this newcomer will not try and rob you too.

The figure removes their hood. A man looks down at you, mouth set in a line.

 _You are looking for Kamar-Taj?_ he says.

You nod slowly. You can hardly believe it. Finally, you have found someone who knows what you are looking for.

The man introduces himself as Mordo and leads you through the streets. You are glad he has decided to take pity on you, because all the roads look the same in your eyes. Eventually Mordo stops and indicates a door. You eye it doubtfully. It looks exactly like the fifteen other doors lining this particular pathway. If anything, it is slightly smaller than the rest.

Mordo, however, does not seem to share your misgivings and holds the door open for you. You walk through out of sheer habit more than anything else, and spend your attention on your surroundings as Mordo leads you deeper into the building. It is deceptively large inside, you notice. You pass at least five different rooms and an entire courtyard as you follow your guide through the hallways.

You are led into a fairly large room where a small amount of people are milling about and tending to various tasks and are told that the Ancient One will see you. You jump to conclusions at first and do not pay attention to the bald, slender woman who is serving you tea. You fail to hide your surprise at her identity.

She seems more amused by you than anything else. You breathe a silent sigh of relief and move on to your reason for coming.

The Ancient One is a master at controlling her features. You cannot glean any of her thoughts from her face, and it makes you nervous.

Then she begins to ask you absurd, ridiculous questions and your anxiety turns to anger. The Ancient One speaks of _magic_ and _sorcery_ , the stuff of fairy tales, and you come to the realization that this woman is a fake just like all the other so-called monks of the world. You have wasted both your time and your money coming here, and you are determined not to waste anything else.

 _We are made of matter and nothing more,_ you spit. _You're just another tiny momentary speck in an indifferent universe._

The Ancient One merely tilts her head. Suddenly she moves like lightning. Her palm impacts your chest with a force that surprises you and sends you tumbling. It takes you a moment to regain your equilibrium, and when you do-

There is the Ancient One, standing serenely. There is Mordo, watching attentively in the background. And there is your body, slowly falling to the floor as you watch and gape like an undignified fish. Your eyes dart to your hands and you realize that you can see right through them. In fact, you can see through every part of your body. Your brain struggles to grasp the reality of what your are experiencing, but the headache building in your temple tells you that you are failing.

Something tugs on you and you lurch forwards without trying. Suddenly you are inside your body again and you jerk back upright, gasping for breath. Your eyes are wide and shocked.

 _What,_ you choke out, _was that!?_

 _The astral dimension,_ the Ancient One says serenely. She is utterly unperturbed by what you have just experienced. You stare at her in complete bewilderment and after a moment, she seems to take pity on you. She explains that the human race lives in one of the many hundreds of dimensions in the universe, and that she draws on the power of these other dimensions to do what she does. Despite the fact that you have just been knocked out of your own body, you can't help your scoff.

Out-of-body experiences are one thing. Alternate dimensions are another.

The Ancient One's eyes narrow, ever so slightly. You are hit with the feeling that vocalizing your doubts may have been a mistake. You prove yourself right when the Ancient One presses her thumb to your forehead.

The world around you explodes.

Suddenly you are rocketing into the atmosphere, past the clouds and up far further than any human has the right to be without also being dead. Earth is a sphere below you, and amidst your panic, there is a butterfly defying all the laws of life mere inches from your fingers.

You make the mistake of reaching for it, and you are instead sent shooting across the horizon that somehow bends into a psychedelic tube of more colors than you can keep track of. You are dimly aware that you are yelling, but you cannot hear yourself. The colors, somehow, are too loud. Part of you desperately wants to analyze how colors can be loud, but the rest of you wants to panic and your analytical part is overruled.

Your body jerks again and you land heavily in a chair, panting and wide-eyed. The Ancient One leans in, almost curiously.

 _He looks alright to me,_ she says, and then the world lurches again and you are abruptly somewhere else looking at something that your mind just can't fully process. You are falling, endlessly, for what seems like years and microseconds at the same time, colors and shapes zooming past your face at a speed that blurs everything into a hazy soup. Lasers trail from your limbs for no reason, then something impacts your chest and there are suddenly six more of you trailing behind, disintegrating into dust as you watch. There is a hole in front of you, pulsating with something that sounds suspiciously like dubstep even though your surroundings are clearly that of outer space, and when you fall in you can feel your body dissembling and reassembling with the beat until one final pulse sends you reeling again.

You are sent tumbling through space and time and rush through a dozen different worlds that you have never seen or even imagined. One minute the colors are exploding, another your hands multiply themselves until your fingers have fingers and those fingers have fingers and those fingers have fingers. Something jerks you to the side and you hurtle towards a black pool rimmed with steely blue – and you suddenly realize that it's your eye, belonging to a you that is over a thousand feet tall. For a moment all your senses go numb. Then they flare into action once again and you are abruptly floating in what looks like the inside of a corrupted human cell. You crane your head and lock eyes with something immensely massive, so large that your brain refuses to fully comprehend the scale of it. Burning purple-red pupils regard you with a malevolence that you can feel and you swallow the urge to scream.

Then you are falling again.

When you slam into the floor, you have to take a moment to convince yourself that it is real. You slowly push yourself to your knees and look up at the Ancient One's face, lifting your arms in an almost fragile manner. You hands are shaking, but for once you don't notice. Likely because the rest of you is also shaking.

 _Teach me_ , you beg.

The Ancient One's mask of neutrality drops and is replaced by cold detachment.

 _No_ , she says.

* * *

You have been huddled in the doorframe of Kamar-Taj for almost five hours now, stubbornly calling and pleading to be let back in. Your mind is racing. You are entirely unable to forget what you have seen and you aren't sure you want to. You have never seen anything even close to that before, and you are afraid of losing your chance to see it again.

Of course, that pales in comparison to being able to heal your hands. If the Ancient One was able to send you through alternate dimensions, imagine how easy it will be for her to heal you. You need to get back in.

It seems, however, that the Ancient One is just as stubborn as you, perhaps even more so. The sun has crept all the way across the sky and beneath the horizon by the time you even hear movement on the other side of the door, and even then it takes another hour or so before the entryway is suddenly opened. Caught by surprise, you sprawl onto the floor of the sanctuary as your support suddenly vanishes. The Ancient One raises a single, mildly amused eyebrow at you, while behind her Mordo rests his face in one palm.

By this point, after everything you've experienced today, you are simply too tired to care about how they might be judging you. But you muster up the strength to croak, _Thank you,_ all the same.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and your perception of reality has forever been irrevocably altered.

* * *

 **Right, that was interesting. How do you describe something that's supposed to be indescribable?**

 **Well, I did my best. Some of those dimensions are** _ **weird**_ **though.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **Neoqueen Sandy for Favoriting/Following!**


	4. Chapter 4

Your name is Stephen Strange and Kamar-Taj is nothing like you thought it would be.

You certainly hadn't expected them to have wifi, of all things. For a cult dedicated to harnessing otherworldly energies, you muse, they are surprisingly up-to-date. You set up your meager belongings in the room you were given – it doesn't take very long – then look at yourself in the small mirror on the wall.

You are a sight, you decide. The first thing you need to do is take a proper shower. You also debate about shaving; it's been a good few months since you last picked up a razor, mostly because your hands won't cooperate when you do. You look down at your fingers. They shake. You sigh.

There will be no shaving for a while yet, but somehow you can't bring yourself to care. You no longer belong to the society where clean-shaven individuals are favored, so why should you bother?

General cleanliness, however, is something that you will not allow yourself to skip out on. You have dealt with a lack of running water for the past two weeks wandering around Tibet and are in no mood to continue the trend. You waste no further time and proceed with your shower.

You fall asleep afterwards. It has been an exceedingly long day and you are still not entirely sure that you are not just imagining the whole experience.

* * *

When you wake up and find yourself still in the little room you have been given, you are admittedly a bit surprised. The logical side of your mind strongly suspected that it was all a dream until reality had proved otherwise.

But it is real. Magic is real. And you are going to learn it.

Something bubbles in your stomach. You suspect that it is excitement, although it could also be because you have not eaten breakfast yet. You decide to rectify that situation immediately.

Once you have eaten, the Ancient One takes you aside and gives you what amounts to a crash course in the foundations of the Mystic Arts. You are surprised at how mundane the teaching methods are; for some reason, you were expecting complicated chanting and a chalk circle on the ground, not 'study and practice'.

But study and practice are two of the things that you are best at, you think. If that is all there is to magic, then this will be easy.

It is not so easy.

You can understand the theory. You can commit the movements to memory. You can even feel what your teachers tell you is your power in the center of your core. But no matter what you do, you cannot seem to make the connection between having the power available and manifesting it in reality. It feels like you are trying to catch the wind with a fish net and your lack of progress infuriates you. 'Study and practice' becomes the motto that you live by religiously for the next month-and-a-half.

The Ancient One has suggested some volumes for you to start with, and you take her advice. Despite your rampant skepticism of magic that had existed until a few hours ago, you are eager to learn. And it is this thirst for knowledge that leads you to finish all four of the recommended books in two days and head back to the library for more. You are a voracious reader, you explain to the librarian, and you have already finished your beginners books.

The librarian simply raises an eyebrow at you. He is a very dry man, you decide. His name is Wong and no matter what you do, you cannot seem to make him laugh at your jokes.

You do not know if this means you are simply not funny, or if Wong simply has no sense of humor. You are inclined towards the latter. Wong seems inclined towards the former.

For the moment, Wong is preoccupied, and you take the opportunity to peruse the shelves. Kamar-Taj uses an odd system where the books are held in place with chains, and you wonder about the efficiency. You take one down to see exactly how it works, then open the book because you are curious. There are pages torn out of a section in the middle, and you wonder if Wong knows. You point it out to him. He tells you that they were stolen by a former initiate named Kaecilius.

You automatically dislike a man who would desecrate books like this. When Wong takes the damaged tome from you and sets it back in its chains, you do not argue. You would do the same, for a book like that.

He asks you questions to judge your progress and gives you four more books to read. You suspect that he is being purposefully difficult, because three of the four books are in Sanskrit and the fourth one is an Sanskrit-to-English dictionary. You blink at the tomes, then decide that it cannot possibly be less accurate than Google Translate and take the books with the thought that at least learning a new language will keep you busy.

You are right, but you have an eidetic memory and breeze through both the dictionary and the three other books Wong gave you in the span of a week and a half. It helps that you have little else to do and that the subject fascinates you; if you did not tend to fall asleep on the books after eighteen hours you would gladly forego sleep to keep learning. Regardless, you quickly master the beginners Sanskrit and move on to intermediate without pause, much to the possible interest of Wong.

You are finding it impossible to tell what mood Wong is in. The expression he uses on you is the same one that he uses on mistreated books and his favorite kind of apple. And you still have not been able to make him laugh. But life goes on and you progress rapidly through your studies.

You wish the practical application could be as easy.

Eventually, you create sparks. That is _all_ you can create. If you were an optimist, you would call it progress. But you are not an optimist. You are a perfectionist. And sparks are so far removed from the result that you want that you are almost more frustrated now than you were when you produced nothing. You try not to let your emotions get the best of you, because you know that knowledge does not have a shortcut, but you are sick and tired of getting nothing in return for all the hard work you've been doing.

Today is no different; you and the other initiates are being taught to create portals, ones that will let you travel anywhere you want. You are given an item that will help you channel your power for the task – a sling ring – and coached through the motions and the theory behind the spell. Then you line up next to the other students and try to put into practice what you have just been shown.

Despite the fact that you are straining with effort, you can only produce a few shaky sparks. Just like all the other times. You refuse to let yourself look at anything but your progress, because you know by the sounds that the students around you are having far more luck.

Your eyes narrow on your outstretched hands, which are shaking like they always do. You glare at the sling ring on your fingers and try to push more power through it, but the only thing you accomplish is slightly more sparks than your last attempt. Your hands shake more with the effort.

Maybe, you think, staring at your failed spell, your hands are not capable of guiding your power. Maybe this is why you cannot seem to accomplish anything.

Anger wells up. Why is everything good in your life ruined by your incurable nerve damage?

Not even a second after this thought passes through your mind, the Ancient One is suddenly standing in front of you. There is a look on her face that passingly resembles pity, which automatically makes you bristle. You don't want her pity.

But you blink, and she looks neutral, just like she always does. You ease out of your stance and return her gaze.

She has seen you struggling. She wants to know what is stopping you. You don't outright tell her how you think your hands are preventing you from succeeding, but you do mention it. The Ancient One tilts her head. She calls over one of the masters and asks him to give a demonstration.

He is missing a hand. His left arm simply stops at the wrist and yet he creates one of the most intricately beautiful spells you have ever seen. You are, understandably, struck dumb.

The Ancient One gives you a small, understanding smile. She tells you that you are trying too hard. You need to surrender to the flow of the magic. You raise your eyebrows, because her advice does not make sense to you. How can you control your power if you are not in charge of it?

The Ancient One does not answer, but leads you through a portal of her own onto a snow-covered mountain. This is Everest, she explains. You clasp your arms around yourself and shiver; the cotton robes of your trainee status are not made for this weather. You wonder what the tallest mountain has to do with the Mystic Arts

You do not notice the Ancient One leaving you behind until it is too late. _Surrender, Stephen,_ she says as the vortex of her portal closes in your face.

Suddenly, you are quite aware of the reason you are on this mountain. The Ancient One expects you to portal your own way back.

You viciously smash down the panic that wells up in your throat. You are going to be dead within five minutes unless you do something. Panic is not an option right now.

You stretch out your hands and push power into the sling ring, and the usual sparks fizzle in the air. You grit your teeth and ignore your mounting sense of fear; it is a thoroughly unhelpful emotion and will not be of any use to you right now. You need to focus if you want to live.

Surrender, she said. You would laugh if you weren't focused on not dying. How are you supposed to do that?

You lower your hands. You take a deep breath. The way you have been trying to cast spells for all these past months clearly has not been working, and if you continue to try in that way you are going to keep failing. So, as illogical as it sounds, you try to surrender.

It is hard to find what you are controlling, at first. You have only been at Kamar-Taj for a few months, if that, and your power is still somewhat new to you. Finding the place where it lives in your soul takes longer than you want, but you don't have time to be annoyed.

It is gold. Bright, pure gold, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. It is beautiful.

It is also caged. Your power thrums like the ocean, but the tide is being blocked. You are blocking it, you realize. You are trying to control the output, but the very act of trying is cutting you off. You need to let it go. Let it flow and pulse, with your heartbeat. Like the ocean.

It takes you a minute to find the release, but once you unlock the cage the feeling is indescribable. A pressure that you had not been aware of is suddenly gone. It feels like liquid sunshine pouring from your center and suffusing every inch of your body, coursing through your veins just like your blood. It feels like life, you think, and you discover that you are smiling.

Then you remember your situation and the feeling of warmth is tempered somewhat by the raging snowstorm around you. You erase the smile and raise your hands again, focusing on where you want to go. Liquid sunshine curls through your limbs and rushes through the provided conduit so easily that you can hardly believe that it took you this long to figure out the trick. The few sparks in the air multiply into thousands and twist into a fizzing, whirling ring that you wish you had time to admire. Unfortunately you don't, because you are now rapidly approaching the status of frostbitten and not even the warm feeling of the magic in your limbs is cutting through it. And besides, you are far too relieved to have room to think about anything else.

You stagger forward and slump ungracefully to the ground in the Kamar-Taj courtyard, shaking like your hands on a bad day. You are vaguely aware of the Ancient One and Mordo standing above you. You think the Ancient One is smiling, but you are not sure. Your vision is blurry from exposure to the whipping snow.

 _Well done,_ the Ancient One says.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and after that experience you sleep for twelve hours straight.

* * *

 **I have no idea what magic feels like. Please accept 'liquid sunshine' as an adequate substitute until otherwise noted.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **TheoR8 for Favoriting/Following!**


	5. Chapter 5

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you need a shave.

There is simply no putting it off any longer. You look like a homeless beggar and your pride refuses to tolerate it anymore. And if there is anything you have learned at Kamar-Taj, it is that your hands do not matter one whit if you have put your mind to something.

You still wish the Ancient One had not decided to drop you on Mount Everest in order to prove this point to you, but you have to admit that her methods produced results. Liquid sunshine in your core thrums briefly in response; it does that now, you've noticed. You suspect that it is pleased to no longer be confined, but then you berate yourself for giving your magic feelings and resume the task at hand.

You are no barber, but you still manage to give yourself a decent haircut and you force your hands to hold... somewhat steadily long enough to tame the beard on your face down to a reasonable level. You look in the mirror to gauge your progress and are surprised to find that you actually like what facial hair you have left. You look sophisticated, you decide, and you debate the logic of simply leaving it like that versus finishing the job and returning to your clean-shaven days.

...No, you think. Clean-shaven was the surgeon, and you are not a surgeon anymore. As bizarre as it sounds, you are a sorcerer-in-training, and the sorcerer-in-training likes the van dyke beard. You give your reflection one last appraising look and decide that, yes, this is a good look on you.

It has been a long time since you have liked the man in the mirror. The one who meets your eyes now, despite the shaking hands at his sides, is someone that you can respect.

You turn away before your thoughts can become any more sappy.

* * *

You are eager to return the library, now that you finally understand how your power works. You had previously been irritated to have been unable to fund a book that would have enlightened you, but now that you have your magic at your disposal you admit that the books would not have helped you in the slightest beforehand.

You do not admit this out loud, of course. You have a reputation to maintain and being proven wrong on something is not part of your reputation.

By now you have a basic understanding of Sanskrit and can read most of the available tomes with little trouble. Your ability to finally put your learning into practice gives you enthusiasm. Now you are learning faster than your curriculum was accounting for, and so you decide to move forward on your own. The fact that your need to sleep interferes with your desire to learn annoys you and you want to learn astral projection in order to counter that. You have been intrigued by the ability ever since the Ancient One first knocked you out of your body and you are eager to get started.

Wong does not approve. He fixes you with his mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression and you know that he will not back down from his stance. Along with never being able to make Wong laugh, you have also never been able to win an argument with him.

So you retreat and plan a stealth mission instead. Gateways have become somewhat of a specialty of yours, now, and you are quick to use them to achieve what you want. You try to take the books when Wong is not looking, but you suspect that he not only notices their disappearance, but knows who is taking them. You fully intend to read as much as you can before he acts on his knowledge, although you hope he will not.

Then again, he might. It has been over a month since you met Wong and you are still not sure if he likes you.

* * *

Astral projection proves easier than you thought it would be. You snort to yourself at the memory of Wong warning that the technique is outside your abilities and glance down at your see-through hands.

Really, all it takes is a bit of an inner push. You suspect, though, that you had an easier time of it since you have already experienced the sensation once and thus knew what to aim for. But you brush aside that thought and open the next book that you appropriated from the library. You take a quick glance at your body, sleeping on your bed, before you turn to the words on the page. There was a warning in the book about the dangers of leaving your body empty for too long, and you do not want to suddenly find yourself trapped without a form to return to.

You take a moment to wonder why the warning came after the description of the technique. It seems like a questionable location.

* * *

The Ancient One requests your presence the next day; Wong has told on you after all. You are surprised that you are surprised. You have never had any uncertainties about the kind of man Wong is, even if you are still not sure if he likes you.

You explain yourself to your teacher, but the Ancient One seems to think that you still have a lesson to learn. She taps on the air and you watch as reality itself seems to shatter in front of her. She beckons you through, and you follow somewhat hesitantly. Your private lessons with the Ancient One tend to be interesting in ways that you do not appreciate.

The last one stranded you on a mountain.

You are surprised to find that the other side of the fracture looks exactly the same, but you quickly revise this opinion when the Ancient One gestures and the ceiling warps in a way will never be natural. Tile folds and expands endlessly yet never seems to take up any more space than it already is, and you stare unashamedly at this utter breaking of physics.

 _This is the Mirror Dimension_ , the Ancient One explains, and proceeds to give you a comprehensive description of the place and what it is used for. Sorcerers, she tells you, use the Mirror Dimension to carry out their battles in a place where their spells will not affect the real world, so as not to harm the civilians around them. You get the feeling that she is doing damage control on you; even now, she still regards you with a sort of neutrality in her face.

It seems, you decide, that she thinks you still have much to learn.

* * *

You have realized that, despite living under her tutelage for months now, you do not know very much about the Ancient One. You ask Mordo about her during a sparring session; he has been with her longer, you reason. He may know.

Unfortunately, he does not know much. He tells you that, as her name suggests, she is ancient. He does not know how ancient she actually is, much to your disappointment. The Ancient One is a riddle wrapped in a puzzle buried in an enigma and hiding behind a trick, and you are just now discovering how little you actually know about the woman. Mordo _is_ able to tell you that she is Celtic and never talks about her past, but that is all he is able to say. You are curious, to put it bluntly. How can he tolerate following a leader he knows nothing about?

Mordo is a man of iron faith. He has spent enough time with the Ancient One to learn her personality, and he has learned that she is someone he feels he can trust. When he describes to you what he has learned about her, all you can glean is that she is contradictory. 'Merciless yet kind', Mordo tells you. Personally, you have seen more of the 'merciless' than the 'kind', but she has yet to actually allow harm to come to you despite dropping you on Everest and catapulting your mind through alternate dimensions. You merely raise an eyebrow in response when Mordo credits her with his sense of self.

 _Trust your teacher_ , Mordo instructs you, and lowers himself into a fighting stance, one which you quickly imitate. Physicality, however, is not your strongest point, and you are quickly struck down. You can hold your own for a minute or two, but you have always been better at using your mind rather than your fists in a confrontation, and you have yet to transfer your think-fast ability from surgeries to self-preservation. While Mordo restrains you in a choke hold, you take the opportunity to ask another question, this one about Kaecilius.

Between your struggling to break free, Mordo tells you how Kaecilius lost his family and came to the Ancient One to find peace. He tells you how Kaecilius was proud and arrogant and questioned the Ancient One's teachings, and how he left Kamar-Taj once he had learned all he could. You can fill in from your conversation with Wong what the man did next, and you ask Mordo what the stolen ritual that he took does. You are curious. Mordo, unfortunately, is not in the mood to continue talking.

But you understand, now, why the Ancient One seems to keep an eye on you and why she always regards you with neutrality. You are arrogant. You are proud. And you have been questioning her teachings.

She is afraid that you are a second Kaecilius, and she is too wary to risk herself again.

Your actions, you realize, are hurting you and those around you. For a brief moment, your mind flashes back to Christine and the last words you said to her. You want to slap yourself.

No more, you decide. You are a doctor and you swore an oath that you would do no harm to others. You think back over the words that your eidetic memory has captured and you realize that you have been doing a terrible job at following them.

You have, simply put, been a jerk. You need to do something about that.

However, it will have to wait. Mordo has seen your moment of distraction and startles you with a weapon that you did not notice him taking. It is wooden, but magic crackles between the individual pieces and the whole thing functions rather like a whip, until it coils back into itself and becomes an ordinary-looking staff.

You have never seen anything like it, and you ask what it is.

 _This is a relic_ , Mordo explains. Some magic, he continues, is too powerful for sorcerers to wield. So the old masters imbued objects with it instead. He demonstrates the staff again, creating another whip-like crack as the relic snaps against the floor, and you jump again despite yourself.

You want one, you decide.

Mordo chuckles when you ask how to get one, and says that relics choose their wielder. He taps on his boots as he explains, and sparks fly off the heels as he does. Your attention is instantly captured; you did not know Mordo had been chosen by a relic, and you wonder what his does.

You find out when Mordo abruptly resumes the spar and leaps on the air to smack you down from behind. You are glad to have your curiosity satiated, but most of you is simply annoyed that he hit you so hard.

You are aware, though, that Mordo is teaching you a lesson. _Fight like your life depends on it_ , he says, _because someday it may._

Your name is Stephen Strange, and sometimes you have to wonder exactly what it is that you have gotten yourself into.

* * *

 **The beard works for him, it really does.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **BubblegumLight for Favoriting/Following!**


	6. Chapter 6

Your name is Stephen Strange and you are utterly failing to craft an apology.

You are glad that you have realized how much of a jerk you used to be, but dealing with the fallout of your previous actions is highly unenjoyable. You would very much like to repair the relationships that your old attitude had broken, but you are not sure you know how. You are equally unsure that you will be believed.

And you are almost positive that Christine will not even bother with you.

You have hurt her. You have hurt her badly, and you will not be surprised if she does not want you in her life anymore. Disappointed and angry at yourself, yes, but not surprised. After all, it is your fault.

You look down at the seven measly words you managed to type before your courage and inspiration failed you and let out a heavy breath through your nose. If you even manage to send anything, you will be impressed.

Therefore, it does not faze you in the slightest when it takes you five more hours to finish the email and another two to work up the nerve to hit the 'Send' button.

* * *

The problem with having an eidetic memory is that you can only read things twice before you become unbearably bored with them. And at the rate you read and absorb information, you have gone through every book in the library exactly twice, except for the Ancient One's personal collection.

Until now, you have let those books be. Partly because you regard them as fragile; Kaecilius has ripped one and you dislike the idea of damaging them more. But you had also considered them somewhat out of your league. You have only recently become fluent in Sanskrit, and it did not help that the Ancient One seems to read her texts solely in said Sanskrit. In addition to that, you are still fairly new to life as a sorcerer and even if you are a bit full of yourself and your abilities you know better than to try a master's technique when you are but a beginner.

But you are no longer a beginner. And you are slightly desperate for new reading material. So one evening you sit down with an apple and the Book of Cagliostro and happily devote your mind to the translating of the new words.

Eventually, you come across the instructions for the use of a relic called the Eye of Agamotto, and you stare at the illustration thoughtfully. You have seen this item before, you realize, and you slowly look up at the pedestal at the front of the library.

One good thing about spending all of your free time here, you think to yourself as you stand, is that you know where everything is. You've walked past this eye-shaped trinket many times before. You just never knew what is was.

You quickly undo the ties holding the Eye in place and loop it around your neck. You vaguely hope that the relic will not take offense to being used; you remember Mordo explaining to you that relics choose their wielder. It would be just like your luck to offend the Eye by using it without permission.

Luckily, the Eye does not seem to mind. In any case, it remains dormant around your neck. You decide to take that as a good sign and refocus on the text you were reading. To your surprise, the instructions are fairly simple. It seems that all the Eye of Agamotto needs to activate are a few hand signs and a _lot_ of magic to power it.

You are slightly skeptical about your ability to make the signs, but you know you can provide the power. Then it turns out that you can make the hand motions too, as long as you concentrate and move slowly. Your hands shake the entire time, but you have discovered that if you are stubborn enough to keep trying, you can accomplish almost anything you are trying to do.

Fine motor actions are usually still out of your range of movement. But you are healing. It is simply taking time.

The Eye slides open with the sound of sliding metal and a bright green flare, and you can feel the drain on your power as the relic takes what it needs. You take a moment to evaluate the situation; the last thing you want to do is die from overexertion.

It seems, though, that you have enough power to run the Eye comfortably for a while. It will definitely run you dry eventually, but for now you are safe. You breathe out a sharp gasp of relief and astonishment, because you honestly did not quite expect this to work. The more likely result, in your mind, was a small explosion.

You shake the thoughts from your mind and move on to the next instruction. Your hands form the structure for the magic to build on and the Eye responds, setting up what almost looks like a mystical mainframe database around your arm. It glows green – the exact same color as the Eye itself, and it is strange to you. All of your magic manifests golden; seeing another hue is bizarre. You take another deep breath in preparation.

The apple you have been eating is the target of your focus, and an intricate green spell forms under your hand as you concentrate. You slowly channel your energy with your movements and the Eye interprets what you want using the spell as the conduit. And before your eyes, the apple is eaten away to a core.

You blink, startled, and move your hand the other way. In the same manner, the apple is uneaten until it sits whole and unmarked on the table. Another gesture and it withers away into a fuzzy, mold-covered husk; back the other way, and it returns to full ripeness. You are literally changing the flow of time around this piece of fruit and you bark out a breathless laugh. This relic is incredible. And terrifying.

You hastily flip the pages of the book until you find the place where Kaecilius had ripped out the paper, and you reapply the spell conduit in order to focus the Eye onto the book. You slowly move your hand and the missing pages materialize from nowhere, reattaching to the ripped edges and falling gently into place like they had never been torn. You can't help but smile a little. A book like this should not be treated in such a way. The things you see on the pages, though, confuse you. There is a name, _Dormammu_ , and promise of eternal life. You raise an eyebrow, confused.

Your mood shatters when the world does, and it catches you significantly off guard. A tower of broken reality spears up to the ceiling and you can already tell that this is not the same shattering that the Mirror Dimension entails. Something is horribly wrong with this fracture and your mind is screaming at you to do something about it. The Eye is still drawing from your power even though the conduit spell has disappeared from your hand, and you think – wildly – that you ought to shut it off because its powering something and you have a horrible feeling that the something is the fracture in the world.

Then Wong is yelling at you and so is Mordo, and in your shock at their sudden presence you cut off the Eye from your magic and the whole thing vanishes. You are not sure what happened but you do not want it to happen again, and Wong and Mordo's words only increase that decision.

According to Mordo, tampering with the flow of time can cause nearly unlimited problems, the least of which include permanent time loops and accidentally erasing yourself from existence. You would like to continue existing, thank you very much, and you likely would not have experimented if you had known that beforehand.

You wonder, not for the first time, why the authors of these books did not put the warnings before the spells. The more you think on it, the more the back seems like a terrible place to put such things.

You have, however, succeeded in getting an expression out of Wong that is not his mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression. Given that it is an angry expression, you are not sure if this is a good thing. It is almost certain that Wong dislikes you at this point.

 _Your curiosity could have gotten you killed_ , he growls at you and snatches the book protectively. He puts it away with harsh, jerking motions _._ You are not sure why; the only thing you have ever done to that book is read it and fix it. Then again, he is likely more angry at you than the book.

Mordo's face has softened now that the crisis has passed, and he points at you with an almost awed look. He wants to know how you were able to use the Eye of Agamotto the way you did. Spells like that, he says, take years to learn.

You explain your eidetic memory to him and toss out an example, but Mordo is unconvinced.

 _What you just did,_ he says in a quiet, still voice, _takes more than a good memory._

It is your turn to be unconvinced. Mordo seems to think you are some sort of prodigy in the Mystic Arts. You wonder if he was paying attention to the way it took you months to produce anything more than sparks in the air, to how the Ancient One still wears her face of neutrality around you, to how the very reason that you came to Kamar-Taj in the first place – your hands – are still not healed. Ironically, for all your medical training, the spells used to heal stubbornly refuse to make sense to you.

You are trying to be a better man, but the loss of your hands still hurts you. You came here to heal them, and you have yet to succeed. You do not understand how you can be a skilled sorcerer if you cannot even accomplish your reason for learning the Mystic Arts in the first place.

When you point this out, Mordo seems unconcerned. Your hands will heal, he is convinced. He just does not know when. As he puts it, sorcerers are not prophets.

For some reason, this annoys you. It has occurred to you that there are a rather large amount of people at Kamar-Taj learning the Mystic Arts, and in your experience people never learn something without having a purpose behind it. You highly doubt that the Ancient One learned magic for the same reason that you are, and the same goes for your fellow initiates. What, exactly, is the purpose of being a sorcerer? You have not been able to discover this in all the time you have been here.

Wong takes over the conversation now. He tells you that sorcerers are somewhat like the Avengers, that both groups guard the world from danger. Avengers, he says, are more focused on the physical threats. You nod, remembering the alien invasion from a few years ago and seeing the news reports of the team who appeared to stop it.

Sorcerers, on the other hand, deal with threats on a more spiritual scale. Wong explains that the Sorcerer Supreme – a title currently held by the Ancient One – is the protector of Earth from invaders from other dimensions. Kamar-Taj, along with three other Sanctums around the world, are part of a mystical barrier that surrounds the planet and keeps malicious entities out. He gestures to three doors behind him which lead to the different Sanctums as he explains. In addition to Kamar-Taj, there is New York, London, and Hong Kong. These four locations are what maintain the shield that protects the planet from invaders.

 _Like Dormammu_ , you say, and explain that you read the name in the book that you healed with the Eye when your listeners express surprise at your knowledge. Wong frowns more deeply than usual as he processes your words.

You get the feeling that Dormammu is not an other-dimensional being that you want to meet.

Wong tells you that Dormammu is the king of the Dark Dimension. He is a destroyer of worlds, a tyrant, a conquerer. He will stop at nothing to expand the reach of his domain into every part of the universe that he can. Above your head, the air melts into a depiction of Dormammu's realm, and something in your chest freezes.

You know that place. You have seen it before.

That was where you saw the eyes that glowed purple and held more violent intent than anything you have ever experienced. You cannot help the nervous swallow that you make, and you look away before the memory stirs up a worse reaction.

Then you remember – the pages that you restored, the ones Kaecilius stole, they had Dormammu's name in them. Your eyes widen as you process the implications. Kaecilius stole a ritual that made a literal deal with what is likely a literal devil, and you could almost scream at the man's stupidity.

And then the rest of the conversation comes back to you, and you begin laughing out of sheer incredulity. If you have understood everything correctly, you are being trained to combat world-ending threats that a former – and most likely, much more experienced – sorcerer has allied himself with and who is also likely to attack in the very near future.

You did not sign up for this.

You can tell that Wong is getting ready to give you a lecture, but he is interrupted by a bell that you have never heard before.

 _London_ , Wong says, concern etching into his features, and turns to the door which leads there. The entryway flies open, and you catch a glimpse of a man running desperately towards you. There is another man behind him, one with gray hair and eyes surrounded by darkness, and he throws something at the running man that pierces through his torso and kills him instantly. He slumps to the floor limply, and you can see what looks like a spear of shattered reality in his back. There is no better way to describe the weapon.

The demon-eyed man looks your way and smirks, then raises something yellow-white and twisting above his head and slams it into the floor. Wong yells something that comes far too late, and then the shockwave from the magic hits you and slams you across the hall through another Sanctum door. You land heavily on the floor, and then a pile of rubble lands on you, courtesy of the continuing shockwave impact. The doorway you came through seals itself as you watch.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and while you are not entirely sure about what just happened, you think you have just been attacked.

* * *

 **Thanks to** **Rosewind Trill and IceTopaz for Favoriting/Following**

* * *

 **Whoops, almost missed my schedule. Life happened, sorry about that.**

 **Enter Kaecilius. He's… a piece of work.**

 **Changeling**


	7. Chapter 7

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you think you might have a concussion.

You are not particularly pleased with this idea, because the last concussion you had made you feel foggy for days and you cannot afford to be unable to think clearly right now. The ground has stopped shaking but you know that the attack on Kamar-Taj is still happening. Despite the logical choice being to safely hide yourself until everything is over, you want to fight. Kamar-Taj has become your home. How dare someone attack it.

You take a moment to evaluate this train of thought, agree with it, then decide that your head is clear enough that you do not have a concussion after all. Good.

You stagger to your feet – you are covered in dust and bits of rock from the rubble that landed on you – and head off into the Sanctum with only a bit of difficulty. You may not have a concussion, but rocks have still landed on your head and there is a faint ringing in your ears that is making it hard to concentrate on your steps. But you need to focus. You do not have the mental clarity needed to use your sling ring yet, and the gateway back to Kamar-Taj has closed itself in your face. You need to find another way back, and you lurch out the nearest door in the hope that you may find something.

You do find something. But it is not Kamar-Taj.

The London Sanctum has just been attacked and you were blown away by the blast. And judging by the English street signs, the time of day, and the architecture, you are not in Hong Kong.

You are standing in a suburb of New York City.

You curse inside your head, because one of your vaguely-formed ideas involved taking a bus back to Kamar-Taj or something. There is no way you can take a bus from here. You would need to take a plane to even get started and you are not exactly a paid man anymore. You dart back inside the Sanctum with greater urgency than before – clearly there is nothing outside that will help you, but maybe you can find an initiate who will let you borrow their sling ring.

It is a nice thought. But as you walk through the Sanctum, you begin to think it might be a futile one as well. No matter where you look, you cannot find anyone but yourself. You have a moment of hope when you come across spatial windows that open to different parts of the world, but the dial is preset and you cannot make the scene depict Kamar-Taj no matter how many times you spin it.

You turn away quickly; you do not have time to waste twirling a view control. You need to find a way back, and you move into the next room to resume your search.

You are mildly surprised to discover that Kamar-Taj is not the only place to hold relics, but after a moment's thought it makes sense. There cannot possibly be enough room in one place for all these artifacts. You are, though, somewhat astonished at how many there truly are.

It occurs to you that one of these relics may allow for instant transport, and so you spend a little more time in this particular room than the others. You do not see anything that looks helpful, but that may be because you do not actually know what any of these relics do. You are becoming slightly annoyed at your lack of progress and intend to move on, but movement at the back of the room catches your eye.

There is a vibrant red cloak hovering in midair behind a glass case, and you pause to stare. You have seen some odd things since you became a sorcerer, but a cape that wears itself is new. It almost seems that the cloak meets your eyes, because it sways with your movement and floats higher as you watch.

In your core, your magic pulses happily. The cloak sways in what almost looks like a response.

Bizarre, you decide, and quickly move on before anything else can happen. You like being able to cast spells and you certainly feel more powerful since you stopped trying to control your magic, but when it acts on its own like that you sometimes wish that you hadn't bothered.

You make your way to a grand staircase and pause at the top, because you can hear noises from the floor below you. You are moving before you can think twice, hurrying around the bannister and onto the joined landing.

But you do not go any further. Because at the base of the stairs below you is a man that you have seen before, just briefly. A man with gray hair and demonic eyes who you could swear you just saw attacking the Sanctum in London.

He moves fast. That is most decidedly not good. Because now he is attacking New York – and he has just stabbed the man who was the last defender in the stomach.

You are yelling before your actions even register with you and you vault over the stair-rail even though you are not sure what you can do to help. The doctor inside you is frantically cataloguing the man's injuries (penetrating abdominal trauma, your mind offers helpfully) and you are well aware that he will likely bleed out before you can administer aid.

But before you can do any of that, you need to deal with the fact that you have now drawn the demon-eyed man's attention.

He has to be Kaecilius. There is too much coincidence for him not to be. Which means that he is incredibly dangerous and you are incredibly out of your league.

Your gaze meets his and you suppress a shudder at the black and cracking skin on his face. Luckily he does not seem to notice.

 _How long have you been at Kamar-Taj, Mister...?_ he trails off, in a nonverbal askance. Out of sheer habit, you bristle at being addressed without your hard-earned title and correct him before you can stop yourself. This only seems to confuse the man.

 _Mister Doctor?_

 _It's 'Strange',_ you retort. If you are going to be killed by this man you are at least going to be killed with the proper name. You have already corrected him once, why not just kick the whole darn bucket while you're at it.

 _Maybe_ , Kaecilius says. _Who am I to judge._

You can already tell that he has misunderstood your name, but you can also tell that he is done speaking to you. It is made very clear when he stabs the last defender through the chest and leaves the man impaled on the floor. You abruptly realize that this means you are the next target.

You are not especially inclined to be the next target. In fact, you would like to avoid being the next target altogether if at all possible. You snap your hands together and guide your power through your fingers to create one of your favorite spells: a fiery golden cord of sparking threads that can be used as both offense and defense at the same time.

It is also the fastest, and the least finicky. Both of which are good qualities right now because you do not have the time to deal with a more complicated incantation when a few seconds may mean the difference between your living or your dying. You would very much like to continue living, and so you conjure your spell between your hands and use it to block the shattered-reality spear of the woman who has just tried to impale you.

However, physical conflict is still not your best area and you are promptly kicked in the stomach by the man on your other side. You stagger backwards with the impact, then modify your cord into a whip and snag a decorative pot, which you immediately smash onto your opponent's head.

He is only stunned, and you want to rant about the unfairness of it all, but a three-on-one fight is not something you are prepared to deal with and you make an executive decision to find a more strategic setting than a staircase. You take off into the inner rooms of the Sanctum and let your whip dissolve as you go; there is no point in wasting concentration and energy to maintain a spell that you are not using. This proves to be an excellent decision as Kaecilius pursues you and you devote all your attention to putting distance between yourself and him.

But then the floor beneath your feet begins to warp and the door you are running towards suddenly stretches farther instead of closer. You jerk to a halt, utterly bewildered, and stare at the undulating tile under you. You have only seen this kind of environmental manipulation once and that was inside the Mirror Dimension, where the caster was the Ancient One. You snap yourself around to face Kaecilius just in time to watch him leap onto the ceiling in blatant defiance of gravity and your eyes go wide.

This is not the Mirror Dimension. This is the normal, Earth-accepted version of reality and Kaecilius is folding matter without consequence. You cannot even begin to imagine the power that he must be channeling; you cannot even make a stick bend in the Mirror Dimension yet, and you have only ever seen the Ancient One work this kind of sorcery within said Dimension as well.

Now, here is a man who can mold the real world to his whim. And he wants to kill you.

You make another executive decision and conjure up the strongest shields you know of – or at least, you try to. You are in a very bad situation and you are having a mild panic attack, and you do not channel nearly enough power to support your spell. One of your shields fizzles out almost instantly, and you stare at your unprotected hand in mingled terror and annoyance, although the terror significantly outweighs the annoyance. But you cannot spend any more time on a spell because your enemies are already charging at you and you can see the shattered-reality spears in their hands and it is all you can do to bring your own shield up in time to block. Sparks fly like fireworks as your shield is put to work, but you lose your concentration when one of Kaecilius' followers slams you into a wall.

You frantically reapply the shield spell – on both hands this time, thankfully – but it only lasts a few seconds as a shattered-reality weapon collides with them and sends you flying back down the hall, your magic once again dissipating as your focus breaks.

That does it, you decide, and your cord-whip manifests between your fingers just in time for you to strike the woman across her torso and send her flying. This, you think, breathing heavily at your close call, is why the cord-of-threads is your favorite spell. It's quick, it's easy, and you can throw someone twenty feet with it.

You have enough distance between you and your pursuers that you could try to run again, but before you can take even a step Kaecilius gestures with his hands and the whole world turns sideways – literally. The left wall abruptly decides that it wants to be the floor and the whole hallway flips, sending you slamming against the glass display cases as the house morphs around you. Kaecilius is warping reality again, you realize, just in time for the hallway to twist around the other way and send you jerking into the display cases on the former ceiling which was formerly the right wall. You are grateful when the hall stops moving, but then you see Kaecilius make another gesture and you automatically try to run before he can make anything else move unnaturally.

You are too slow. The whole house is suddenly tilting upwards and gravity pulls you down, towards where Kaecilius is still standing on the ceiling and waiting for you. You latch onto a doorframe before you can fall too far and watch as various loose objects fall past you in obedience to gravity.

You are hit with an idea, as you watch his followers dodge the debris, and you let go before you can talk yourself out of it. You fall down through the hallway and hit the woman with all the force that falling entails, and knock her out of the spatial window at the very far end of the hallway. She is sent flying into what looks like the Sahara desert, and you grasp at the control dial to change the location before she can come back.

The house suddenly rights itself as you reach and the male follower kicks your hand away before you can touch it. You spend a few seconds fighting with him before you make a lunge and twist the dial to show the rainforest instead.

One less zealot to worry about, you sigh, then duck because the man is still trying to kill you and you are still trying not to be killed. He wraps his arms around your neck in a choke hold and you take advantage of your positioning. You are still in front of the spatial window and Mordo has not spent all these months teaching you self-defense for nothing. You quickly throw the man over your shoulder into the rainforest and slap the dial to change the scenery again.

Two down.

That just leave Kaecilius, who you now realize is right behind you, and you quickly duck under his shattered-reality spears and take off down the hallway again. You do not want to be in here if he starts folding the matter again; it is far too easy for him to smash you against the walls in a tight space.

You sprint around a corner and make a beeline for the room with the relics in it – it's a long shot, but maybe you can find something there that can help you. As an afterthought, you manifest another cord-of-threads between your fingers while you run. Kaecilius is, after all, trying to kill you, and not having a ready defense is practically suicide.

You bolt for the first relic you see, a chalice-type thing with glowing gold contents and brandish it at Kaecilius triumphantly. You silently pray that he does not call your bluff, because you have absolutely no idea how to use this thing.

Unfortunately, Kaecilius calls your bluff within seconds. You respond by lobbing the chalice at his head, and then everything becomes quite confusing. Kaecilius has two shattered-reality spears in his hands and he knows how to use them, and you are frantically holding him off to the best of your ability. You are once again thankful that your favorite spell acts as both offense and defense, because you would never have the time to switch spells in the middle of a fight like this. As it is, you are being slowly overwhelmed regardless.

Kaecilius moves for another blow and you block just a little too late. He sends you crashing through a display case with laughable ease, and broken glass and the relics contained inside go sprawling. Despite everything, you wince; relics are at least partially sentient, if they choose their wielder. You make a mental note to apologize to them if you live through this.

A jerk on your tunic snaps you out of your thoughts just in time for you to be sent through another glass case. A flash of red in your vision catches your attention, and you realize that you have just crashed through the case that the friendly cloak had been in. You are not sure why you are registering this in favor of all the other things happening at this moment; maybe you ought to reevaluate your diagnosis of that concussion. You have just been thrown through several glass windows headfirst, after all.

Focusing on your questionable mental clarity is a mistake. Kaecilius is standing over you with a shattered spear in his hand and he is aiming for your heart. You are well aware that he will not miss.

You are significantly surprised when he misses. From his expression, so is he. There is a corner of red cloth blocking the spear from reaching you and you crane your head to see the friendly cloak floating above you, folds snapping in a way that you can only describe as 'ticked off'.

If you live, you decide, you are absolutely coming back to say thank you to this relic. It has just saved your life.

Kaecilius glares at the cloak and pulls back his arm to try again, but again the fabric stops him. You are beginning to regain your mental capacity now that you have been given a moment to recover, and you can feel your magic thrumming in your core. There is something about this cloak, you decide, that apparently resonates with you.

However, you will investigate that after you live. If you live. It is still very much in the air at this moment.

You can tell that Kaecilius is becoming annoyed at being blocked, but you are still caught off guard when he kicks you and bodily throws you out of the cloak's range. You stagger to your feet just in time to catch his arm as he tries to stab you once again, but this leaves your arms occupied and unable to block the second kick to your chest. You are forced backwards, stumbling until something hits your legs and you fall over backwards. It occurs to you, about a second too late, that you should have watched out for the stairway bannister. Because you have just fallen over it and are now rapidly approaching the floor twenty feet below.

Until a flash of red streaks towards you and fastens itself around your shoulders like it was made for them. Suddenly you are no longer falling, but floating, and there is a thrumming in your core that exactly matches the pleased vibrating of the fabric curling around your neck.

It's the cloak, you realize. The cloak is a relic, and it has just chosen you.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and your relic lets you fly.

* * *

 **Writing a pre-dictated fight scene is** _ **hard.**_ **Hope I did okay.**

 **Changeling**


	8. Chapter 8

Your name is Stephen Strange and you really wish that your relic had picked a better moment than the fight for your life to introduce itself.

You are, of course, utterly thrilled to have been picked and if you weren't in mortal danger right now you would absolutely sit down and get to know your new partner. But you are in mortal danger, so you push down your thoughts regarding this new development and let the cloak lift you back up to the second level while you fashion yet another cord-of-threads whip in your hands and strike at Kaecilius with it.

This proves to be a mistake, because you have forgotten that Kaecilius is more experienced than you are and he proves it with little difficulty. His shattered-reality spear intercepts the end of your whip and the two of you are promptly embroiled in the most serious game of tug-of-war you have ever experienced.

Despite both you and the cloak pulling against him, Kaecilius is much stronger and jerks you towards him with one quick movement. You suspect that the deal he has made with Dormammu is enhancing his physical prowess, which is highly unfair in your opinion. But there is little you can do about it except perhaps complain, which will do nothing.

You are caught off guard by the sudden pull and collide with Kaecilius in a tangle of limbs and cloak. It only takes you a second to realize exactly how dangerous of a position this actually is and you quickly scramble to your feet to put some distance between you and him. Kaecilius sneers at you and brandishes his shattered spears in an attempt to slash you open-

-but misses, because there is a tugging around your neck and on your shoulders and you are suddenly sliding backwards, much to your surprise as much as your opponent's. You take a moment to register that the cloak is pulling you away, and you wonder exactly how sentient the fabric actually is. This is the third time it has saved your life in twice as many minutes.

The cloak deposits you next to a pair of (astonishingly) unbroken displays of weapons and you immediately move towards the blades. With any luck, you might be able to better counteract Kaecilius' shattered-reality spears with your own sharp edge.

Another tug on your collar stops you from moving any further, and you run futilely in place for a moment before whirling around to glare at the cloak on your shoulders. Does it want you to die? Because the way things are going, you are definitely not going to survive without a weapon.

The cloak jerks sharply and jabs a cloth corner at the other display, which holds a complicated metal contraption with so many parts that you cannot really tell what it does. But the cloak is insistent. And Kaecilius has caught up to you and is aiming another strike at your head, so you really don't have much of a choice in the matter. You leap backwards, kicking Kaecilius away as you do, and the cloak magnifies your movement so that you land right next to the display. You snatch the metal relic off the wall and stagger briefly, because it is heavier than you expected, then throw it bodily onto Kaecilius' torso.

As soon as it touches him, the contraption comes alive and contorts around its prisoner's body, locking him down and immobilizing him on the floor to the point that he cannot even talk properly, as there is a metal gag on his mouth. You recognize the breather for what it is and promptly let yourself sag, resting your hands on your knees and gasping for the breath that you have lost to adrenaline and sheer undiluted panic.

You are not dead, you think to yourself in disbelief. You are not dead.

Muffled words break through your thoughts and you look up to see Kaecilius attempting to speak through his prison. You frown, because you cannot make out a single word he is saying, and you carefully remove the gag to hear him better.

He is chanting nonsense. You groan, because you are in no mood to hear his ramblings and order him to stop.

 _You cannot stop this, Mister Doctor_ , Kaecilius says, and you twitch at his butchering of your name. But that is not the point here, as painful as that is to admit. You would sincerely like to know what is going on and why Kaecilius has apparently gone so insanely stupid in the head that he would promise his soul to the ruler of the freaking Dark Dimension. It has the word 'dark' in the name, for crying out loud!

Kaecilius looks at you in the same way that religious zealots do: 'poor man, he just doesn't understand'. He tells you come odd-sounding nonsense about the many becoming the few becoming the one, and you cannot help but stare in confusion. He is making no sense to you, and you tell him that unless he wants to start doing so, you are going to put the mouthpiece back on and he can mumble his meaningless chanting all he wants.

Kaecilius just smirks. _Tell me, Mister Doctor-_

You snap. You have had your name mutilated far too many times for your liking today and you are not going to stand here and let it happen again.

 _My name,_ you enunciate, _is Doctor Stephen Strange._ You are fed up with the confusion and ridiculous misunderstandings and you are going to set the record straight whether it is a good idea or not. Given the man whom you are talking to, it is probably not a good idea, but by this point you simply do not care anymore.

 _You are a Doctor,_ Kaecilius says. He is pleased, and proceeds to explain his philosophies to you in detail. In the natural world, all things age and die, even the sun eventually. But the Dark Dimension, he says with glistening, demonic eyes, is beyond time.

You blink at him, because it sounds like he has sold himself in exchange for eternal life as part of 'the One'. You wonder how much of an idiot he can possibly be. You have seen 'the One', and it was absolutely terrifying for all of the five seconds you were there for. You do not even want to try and imagine what an eternity there would do to someone.

You ask him what he could gain from such an existence, trying to see where his mind went sideways. Kaecilius snarls as he talks about time; he calls it a thief, unnatural, only good for pain. The Dark Dimension, he says, is beyond time. No one else will have to die once they are part of the One.

He clearly cannot hear himself, you decide, because otherwise he would see what a hypocrite he is being. What about all the people he has killed in his pursuit of 'eternal life'?

 _Tiny, momentary specks within an indifferent universe,_ Kaecilius says, uncaring and emotionless.

You freeze. Word for word, he has repeated almost exactly what you told the Ancient One when you first met her, before she showed you otherwise, before you believed in such things as magic. Suddenly, you can see exactly where you could have gone down the same path as Kaecilius, and it scares you to no end.

Had you chosen differently, there would be nothing to separate you from him. It might have been you, crouching on the floor and mindlessly pursuing a delusion with an empty promise at the end. And you know how easy it would have been, because you once had the exact same mindset as the man in front of you.

No wonder the Ancient One has never looked at you with anything more than a neutral face.

Kaecilius is still talking, but he has mistaken your silence for agreement and is ranting about the rightful state of humanity. Death is an insult, he says. He seeks to save the world from such things and Dormammu is the one who will help him, because Dormammu is outside time, beyond death. He is the defender of existence because with him, there is no such thing as nonexistence.

You bristle.

 _The Sorcerer Supreme_ _defends existence_ , you retort, because all the Ancient One has ever done for you is prevent you from turning into Kaecilius and you will not tolerate hearing her reputation be slandered like this.

Kaecilius sneers again and asks you why you came to Kamar-Taj. You do not answer him, because why would you answer a madman? But your hands slowly ball into a fist regardless. Kaecilius takes your movement as the answer he needs, and a smug tone creeps into his voice. You came to be healed, he says matter-of-factly. So do all the rest. But instead of healing, he accuses, the Ancient One gives her students parlor tricks, shiny spells that do nothing for their actual wounds but make them feel better anyways.

The real magic, Kaecilius seethes, liquid trickling from one blackened corrupted eye, she keeps for herself.

Your mind flashes back, unbidden, to the ripped-out pages in the Book of Cagliostro that you restored, the book from the Ancient One's personal collection. The ones that no one reads but her, simply because no one but her can understand them.

Except you. And you have seen the spell on the pages that Kaecilius took.

You have a horrible feeling that you know where this is going.

 _Did you ever wonder,_ Kaecilius says with a triumphant air, _how the Ancient One has managed to live this long?_

The Ancient One has made a deal with Dormammu. The reason she is alive is because she draws power from him, in the same way that Kaecilius draws power from him now. Clearly, though, she is doing it in a much smarter manner, because her eyes certainly do not make you shiver the way Kaecilius' do.

You wonder, perhaps, if part of the reason that she fought so hard to keep yourself and Kaecilius from going down her path was because she knew what the cost would be?

Not to say that you aren't shocked and betrayed, because you are. But you know that the Ancient One is far more sensible than Kaecilius is, and so you set aside your feelings and reserve your judgement for later. You can ask her for her reasoning once the world is no longer in danger of being absorbed by an alter-dimensional demon.

So you shove down your reaction, for now, and focus on Kaecilius once more. He is still talking; in fact, you are not sure he ever stopped. He is practically spitting with suppressed anger at the supposed wrongdoings of the Ancient One. Dormammu, he says, freely gives what the Ancient One will not. His gift of eternal life makes him the savior of the worlds, not the destroyer.

You blink rapidly, trying and failing to follow Kaecilius' logic. You are now quite certain that Kaecilius either has not looked in a mirror since performing the ritual or is just plain delusional, and you tell him so. Dormammu has made him into a murderer who does not even acknowledge his victims as important. You have no interest in a kingdom ruled by a creature like that, thank you very much.

Kaecilius finds your answer amusing, it seems. His mouth quirks in a smile and a quiet chuckle escapes him. Your eyes narrow. How can he find being accused of murder funny?

 _No, not that,_ Kaecilius says idly. _What's funny is, that, you've lost your sling ring._

Half of you immediately decides that Kaecilius is tricking you, but your hand still moves to your side just to make sure. Your fingers brush against empty fabric and you curse furiously to yourself. How are you supposed to get back to Kamar-Taj now? You twist around and scan the carpeting, hoping that maybe it simply fell off in the fighting earlier.

You have the right idea, but you are thinking of the wrong fight. Because the gold flare of a gateway catches your eye just a little too late and the man who you had thought you stranded in the rainforest stabs you in your chest, just _barely_ missing your heart. You lurch forwards in an automatic response to the pain and the man helps you finish the movement by shoving you headfirst down the stairs.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and despite your best efforts, it seems that you are going to die after all.

* * *

 **I know I said writing a pre-scripted fight was hard, but this was three times worse. Having to write a pre-scripted exposition dump is literally the most annoying thing I think I've ever had to do on this website. Tell me if it worked?**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **Indigene Syke for Favoriting/Following!**


	9. Chapter 9

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you have just discovered that stairs can, however briefly, inflict pain equal to or greater than a stab wound.

You are also aware that you have hit your head, again, and after being fallen on by rocks and smashed through glass windows you are quite certain that you might have that concussion after all.

Mostly, though, you are just in pain. Agonizing, radiating pain that attacks your chest and makes it hard to breathe and you just want to curl up and wait for the feeling to pass.

But it doesn't, because you have been stabbed and there is a hole between your ribs. The man who stabbed you has not come back to finish the job yet and you are not inclined to wait on him. You draw yourself up with gritted teeth and hissing breath and stagger down the hallway. You do not know where you are trying to go, only that the more space between you and him the better. The doctor in you is coldly and calmly assessing your injuries – you have a cardiac tamponade, and that is all kinds of bad. General estimate gives you twenty minutes, tops, before your heart stops working due to the pressure of the internal bleeding in your pericardial sac unless you can somehow get yourself to a hospital.

You groan, partly from the pain and partly from the sheer impossibility of your situation. There is no readily conceivable way you can think of that would get you help in time. The only thing you can think of are the spatial windows on the other side of the Sanctum, but even if you make it all the way there (highly unlikely, given how your vision is hazing) the odds of the windows having an ER preprogrammed into their dials are slim to none.

The pounding of shoes on wood behind you alerts you to the fact that your pursuer is back to finish you off and you make the mistake of trying to stagger faster. Rather than increase your speed, it increases your pain instead and you clamp your mouth shut to keep a few choice words from spilling out. You need all your breath for running (hobbling, your brain corrects you) and wasting it on unhelpful curses will get you nowhere except possibly dead sooner.

Then again, you are not sure it makes much difference, because your attacker is over you within seconds. His arm pulls back to strike and you can see the shattered-reality spear in his hand-

-red flashes past your eyes and your relic is abruptly wrapped around the zealot's head, writhing as though it is possessed and bodily jerking the man around to bang his skull against several sharp corners and then drag him down to the floor. You waste a few precious seconds gaping, startled into stillness, until your brain kicks back into gear and you snag your sling ring from the man's waist while your cloak slams his head against the wooden flooring.

You make a mental note, if you live, to thank your relic up, down, and sideways for saving your life. But that depends on the 'if you live' portion of that mental note, which depends on whether or not you can make it to a hospital in time.

Your head is hazy with pain and urgency and so your mind latches on to the one hospital that you know better than any other. It takes you a few moments longer than usual, because the agony in your chest is highly distracting, but your gateway opens to the mop closet of the New York Hospital and you immediately lurch through, though you collide with the janitor's cart on the way. You throw your weight against the door and burst into the ICU Reception hallway, where your clear lack of ability to stand straight and your pained expression attracts the attention of an orderly you do not recognize.

 _Sir, can I help you?_ She says, worry lacing her tone as she catches sight of your stab wound.

Your brain is beginning to catch up with your actions, and the part of you that is still lucid is berating the rest of you for coming here of all places, because this is where Christine still works and you have still not managed to craft a competent apology despite having tried approximately twenty-seven times by this point. But you do not have time to portal to a different hospital and you know that, despite everything, Christine will never turn away a patient in need.

Even if that patient is the man who has been an utter jerk to her.

 _Dr. Palmer,_ you gasp. _Where is she?_

The orderly tries to convince you that you need treatment, but you are insistent on finding Christine. You know that you are bleeding out, thank you very much, but there is still a small part of you that refuses to allow doctors you do not trust to operate on you.

You stagger a few more steps down the hallway and call Christine's name until you draw her attention, then convince her to treat you. It is not very hard – you can feel yourself fading, now, and Christine can tell that something is very wrong. You force yourself to hold onto your awareness for long enough to give Christine your diagnosis, because her knowing will save her valuable time searching for the problem, but at that point your body control gives up on you and you fall limp on the table.

Distantly, you can hear Christine panicking, and you make an executive decision before you can decide it might be a bad idea. Before you can pass out completely, you push your astral self out of your body with the usual explosive momentum. You take a moment to orient yourself, because your astral form does not have the wounds of your physical form and the absence of pain is somewhat of a novel feeling, now. But you have more important things to worry about, namely not dying. You have a vested interest in not dying.

However, that does not mean that you could not have thought your actions through just a bit more thoroughly, because when you materialize your upper body in the physical world to give Christine assistance, you nearly cause her a heart problem of her own. She jerks back with a startled shriek and you mentally smack yourself, but paste on what you hope is a calm and soothing expression because the last thing you need to do is scare off your only hope at surviving.

 _Stephen_? She breathes, creeping closer again and staring at you, wide eyed. She glances from you, to your body, and back to you, and you can see her visibly struggling to comprehend what she is seeing. _Are you dead?_

Under the circumstances, this is an entirely logical assumption, and you breathe a silent sigh of relief. Christine, for the moment, will not be running in terror. You reassure her that, no, you are not dead, but that might be subject to change if neither of you do something. You take the situation into your own slightly translucent hands and use your abilities to show Christine where the blood is, since she is the one holding the needle.

For a brief moment, you are fooled into thinking that you might survive this day after all. That thought is promptly dashed by the arrival of the astral projection of the man whom you left being strangled by your cloak, pushing his head through the far wall and leering at you in a manner that makes you altogether uncomfortable.

 _...I'm gonna have to vanish now_ , you tell Christine, and quickly remind her to keep your body alive before you pull yourself back into the astral realm and lunge at the man in an attempt to keep his attention off your body. Astral projections usually do not affect the real world, but if your opponent tries hard enough, he can kill your physical form right here and now. All he would have to do is jolt Christine's hand and the needle goes through your heart rather than alongside it.

For obvious reasons, you cannot allow that to happen, and so you tackle him through a table, only for him to throw you off and through the far wall. You only get a moment to process your surroundings before your attacker phases through the wall and your fight intensifies again. The two of you tumble through the hospital, punching and kicking and unintentionally causing more than a few lightbulbs to flicker and machines to malfunction in the process, though luckily most of the machinery belongs to a snack machine and not something more crucial like a ventilator. It is clear, though, that you are slowly losing this fight. Not for the first time today, you curse your lack of combat skills and resolve to triple your training with Mordo if you get out of this.

You fall through another wall and find yourself back in the room with your body and Christine, and you twist around just in time to receive an astoundingly solid punch to the underside of your jaw. The man's foot collides with your head mere seconds later.

Your vision goes dark.

* * *

Something pulses and your eyes fly open as the zealot hovering over you goes careening backwards, blown away by a red-gold explosion. You gasp despite not actually needing the oxygen at the moment and glance frantically at your body. Christine is removing defibrillators from your chest and your brain helpfully fills in the blanks.

However briefly, you were just dead. Christine has just manually restarted your heart, and in the process seems to have given you a massive energy boost. You shoot a quick look at your opponent; he has collided with a pile of medical equipment in the corner of the room and is groaning in a disoriented manner. You take the opportunity for what it is and manifest yourself in the physical world as fast as you possibly can.

 _Hit me again!_ you demand, which promptly makes Christine scream again and you wince. You will need to apologize to her once you deal with the current situation, but right now you need her to up the voltage and shock your heart again, because you cannot hope to compete with your adversary on the combat stage. You have an idea, but you need the energy surge from the electricity and you cannot do it without Christine's help.

She has no idea why you want to be zapped again, but you can tell that she will listen. You withdraw from the physical world again and dart over to where your opponent is just now recovering from the first blast. You take advantage of his lingering disorientation and pin him against the wall, right as Christine charges up another blast and presses the defibrillators to your skin.

It feels like your power core has just been given a thousand espresso shots, and you literally begin to glow with the pent-up energy that is accumulating within you. You instinctively grasp that trying to contain this kind of power will kill you before your opponent will, so you grab him by the shoulders and put everything you have into pushing the energy out of you and into him.

There is an unbearably bright flash and a violent **crackle** and the zealot explodes in front of you, vaporizing into a wisp of faint translucent smoke before vanishing altogether. You sag into the floor, literally, in your relief. You are still alive. Somehow.

You take a moment to just wrap your mind around everything that has just happened, then remember that you are still in your astral body and that Christine is undoubtedly wondering if you are dead or not. You carefully line yourself up with your body and let yourself fall back in-

-and the pain hits you like a sledgehammer to the chest. You jerk violently and take in heaving breaths, trying to get your reaction under control so that Christine can keep treating you, but it takes a good ten seconds or so for your muscles to relax again.

You have also scared Christine for the third time in about as many minutes. You really do need to apologize to her once this whole mess gets sorted out. Right now, though, you need to lie still, because there is still a hole in your chest and you both know that it will need stitches.

Christine works in silence for a while, which comes as a welcome relief to you. Your day has been sprinting nonstop ever since you put on the Eye of Agamotto this morning, which you just now belatedly realize is still around your neck. In the span of a few hours your new home has been attacked, you specifically have been attacked, you have fought off a madman who breaks the laws of physics, been chosen by your relic, and nearly died more times than you can keep track of. It is only just now beginning to hit you, and you are glad you are already lying down. You have a feeling that you would have ended on your back one way or another.

Eventually, Christine works up the courage to break the quiet. She's confused, understandably so, about a great number of things. Your long absence, for one, and your seeming lack of need to stay in your body for another. You can't tell whether she is more surprised at the fact that you came back or that you can do magic now.

When you apologize for how you treated her all those months ago and her response is to check you for shock symptoms, you conclude that she has settled on the fact that you came back – for now, anyways. You have a feeling that if she sees the gateway, which you are just now remembering is still open in the mop closet, the fact that you can do magic now will become more relevant.

Still. You cannot deny that it is nice to see her again.

Christine puts a knot in the stitches closing your wound and asks a question that you can tell has been lingering in her mind since she started treating you: _Where have you been?_

That, you reflect, is a long story. But you do your best to summarize it for her, because it is the least you can do to try and explain the craziness that follows you around now. Unfortunately, you do not do a very good job – you somehow give Christine the idea that you have joined a cult, even though Kamar-Taj is nothing of the sort. It's not a cult, you protest, albeit weakly. You have fresh stitches in your chest, after all, and you would rather not rip them.

 _That's what a cultist would say,_ Christine teases you, and you laugh despite your stitches. The movement produces a twinge from your stab wound, which reminds you of why you are in the hospital in the first place, which reminds you that Kaecilius is still bent on handing the planet over to Dormammu. You brace yourself with a hissing breath and and move to sit up, and Christine reaches to stop you. As if she needs to remind you that you have been stabbed and given stitches, you think to yourself wryly. Truly, you would love to just lie on this table for a while and recover, but as you jokingly tell Christine, you are late for a cult meeting.

You have a scheduled face-off with the Zealots of Dormammu, and they likely are not the kind of customers who like to be kept waiting.

Christine supports you as you make your way back into the hall, and you attempt to explain exactly what is happening to her as you go, because she asked and because you cannot bring yourself to lie to her. She keeps a straight face through your description of Kaecilius, his deal with Dormammu, the powers he has been given, and how he tried to kill you, but you lose her at the part where you left him in Greenwich Village and need to take the gateway you opened in the mop closet in order to get back to deal with him. She stares at you with the blankest face possible, which you interpret as her guard-mask. She thinks you are lying to her, and she does not want to be hurt by you any more than she has already been. You add yet another mark to the list of reasons why you would like to punch your past self in the face.

That, however, is unhelpful right now, and so you simply open the mop closet to show Christine the sparking vortex that is your gateway, floating between the bleach shelf and the janitor's cart. She gapes at it, wide-eyed, while you take a deep breath and hop the height difference between the two locations that the portal spans.

 _I really do have to go_ , you say apologetically, and fix Christine with the most grateful look you can muster. You let the gateway close in a shower of embers and turn back to the hall of the Sanctum, wincing. Your stab wound does not appreciate being aggravated by your walking, and you can already tell that you will be powering through the pain for at least a few hours yet.

The body of the man who attacked you in the hospital catches your eye, and you automatically tense. There is something wrong; he is far too still, and your cloak is no longer restraining him, but rather floating patiently in midair. Your mind flashes back to the moment when you channeled your energy overload into his astral form and how he left nothing behind when he exploded. You reach down, almost fearfully, to check for his pulse.

Nothing.

Realization hits you like a freight train – he is dead. You have killed him. You, the doctor, the man who took an oath to do no harm, have killed him.

You barely register the fact that you have stood up, nor do you particularly pay attention when you swing your relic around your shoulders. Your feet carry you down the hallway, back to the main room of the Sanctum, but you are too lost in your thoughts to really notice.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and all you can think is that you have just become a murderer.

* * *

 **Right about now is where I start** **really** **getting into Stephen's thought process. Be warned, the next chapter is probably gonna get angsty again.**

 **Changeling**


	10. Chapter 10

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are numb.

You have killed someone. Someone is dead because of you and had you acted differently, they might not be. You have never, ever been responsible for another's death before and it shakes you to your core.

Yes, the man had been trying to kill you. Yes, he had made a deal with Dormammu. Yes, he had been in league with Kaecilius to give the world over to the Dark Dimension. Logically speaking, it is a good thing that he is dead. Logically speaking, you should be relieved. There is one less zealot to deal with.

But all you can think about is the emptiness in his face and the limpness of his body, a body that will never move again. You wonder if he had anyone he cared about, if someone would want his shell to bury and mourn over. What if he had a sister, a brother, a child? What about his mother, his father? You have killed a zealot, yes, but you have also killed a son, a husband, a father, a brother. He may have been all of those or merely just one, but you have just severed that connection.

You feel sick.

It barely registers to you that you have climbed the stairs, and when you find that Kaecilius has escaped from his bindings, you process the development distantly.

Will you have to kill him, too? To make him stop? To save the world?

You don't know if you can handle that.

Someone speaks behind you, and your mind jerks into autopilot. You twist around, arms moving to defend yourself, fully expecting to see Kaecilius wielding his shattered spears and attacking.

Instead, you see Mordo, and your relief is almost palpable. Mordo scrutinizes you with concern on his face and disbelief mingles with pride when he speaks.

 _You're okay,_ he says. He sounds as though he truly feared otherwise, and you will freely admit that you are not entirely sure of it either. Physically, you have a hole in your chest, but it will not stop you from moving about. Mentally, spiritually, you are reeling from the murder you have just committed.

'Okay' might be a relative term at the moment, you think.

Mordo gives you another once-over, and his eyes widen in surprise. _The Cloak of Levitation_ , he breathes, reverent. _It came to you._

You blink and turn your head slightly to the scarlet fabric on your shoulders. The Cloak of Levitation. You repeat the name in your mind a couple times and remember the moment when it caught you mid-fall. The name is well-suited.

The Cloak rustles slightly. You get the feeling that it is pleased to be recognized. You make yet another mental note – once this is over, _if_ it is ever over, you will really need to sit down with your relic and get to know it.

Mordo continues to stare at the Cloak, and you shift slightly. He is acting as though you have done something impressive by partnering with it. This confuses you, somewhat, because sorcerers and relics partner together all the time. Mordo himself holds two. Why is you partnering with one so surprising?

 _No minor feat_ , a new voice says, as if answering your inner question. The Ancient One steps into view with the faintest of smiles on her face. _It's a fickle thing._

You receive her words, but your mind is not focused on them. You are flashing back to the rituals you read in the Book of Cagliostro, to the conversation you had with Kaecilius, to what you know the Ancient One has done. You try to steel yourself against the flood of questions building in your throat, because the possible end of the world is not the time to challenge her leadership, but you desperately want to know: why?

You swallow, and look the other way. _He's escaped_ , you say, reaching for a different subject. A distraction. Kaecilius seems like a relevant distraction.

The Ancient One grasps your meaning instantly; likely, he is the reason she is here in the first place. He has, after all, just attacked Kamar-Taj and two of the other Sanctums. As the Sorcerer Supreme, she will not stand for such an assault.

The thought of her title jolts you and you abruptly remember what happened during your fight with Kaecilius. He folded matter in the real world, in a way that you have only ever seen the Ancient One perform – though never outside the Mirror Dimension. You are almost positive that this is not a normal ability, and from the Ancient One's reaction to your words, you are right. The barely-there smile from a few moments earlier has vanished like smoke, and her eyes harden into stone.

 _How many more?_ She asks, iron in her voice. You are able to give the location of the woman without much trouble, but the Ancient One has to prompt the fate of the man from you. Telling her that his dead body is lying in the hall is one of the most difficult things you have ever forced from your mouth.

It reminds you, though, that there has been more than one casualty, and you remember the Master of this Sanctum that Kaecilius had struck down in the foyer. Mordo tells you that his body has already been taken back to Kamar-Taj, and you nod, satisfied. At least now one of the dead will be taken care of.

 _You defended the New York Sanctum_ , the Ancient One says, and you restrain a snort. 'Defended' implies that you were successful. All the former occupants are dead, your adversary escaped, you yourself almost died of your wounds, and there is still a corpse in the hallway. You would not necessarily count this as successful.

The Ancient One, however, does not seem to think this way. _With its Master gone, it needs another._

You know where she is going before she even links the word 'Master' to your name, and revulsion explodes in your chest and breaks out as an emphatic, _NO._ You are a Doctor, not a Master, and honestly you don't feel that you deserve even that title anymore. You have killed someone! You have broken the most sacred oath you have ever taken, gone against everything you have ever stood for! You feel sick every time you think of the man's body lying empty on the ground and knowing that it is  your fault that he is like that. And the Ancient One wants to reward you for that?

No. You will move to the other side of the planet if you have to, you are not taking charge of this Sanctum. You do not deserve it.

But the Ancient One misunderstands. She does not know that in the span of the past six hours you have had your worldview turned upside down, that you have seen what you could have become and was scared stiff of it, that you have fought for your life no less than four times tonight and now have more respect for how fragile it is than you have ever had before. She does not know that you have seen how your past actions have affected those you care for, how you more than ever wish you could go back and change yourself, how you have realized the value of what you have. How can she?

You have changed. But she was not here to see it. In your mind, you know this.

But you have just reached the very end of your patience, your endurance, your will to continue, because this day has worn and ripped and ground at you until you have been rubbed raw and weak and completely, utterly exhausted. And the hold you have been keeping on all your questions and accusations snaps before you can even consider whether or not it is a good idea.

The Ancient One is unprepared for your words, and a small part of you regrets being the cause of the fear and betrayal in her eyes, but you have hit your limit and you simply do not care anymore. You keep your voice low and even as you lay out everything you have deduced about her in a few neat sentences and once you are finished you meet her gaze challengingly, daring her to deny it.

 _Once they regroup,_ she says, ignoring or avoiding your accusations, but you are not sure which, _the zealots will be back. You will need reinforcements._

She walks away, then, and for the first time in your life you wish you had been wrong about your suspicions. But there is no taking back the words between the two of you now, and that is something that you will both have to live with.

Mordo watches her leave; he has not said anything since the Ancient One neglected to deny your claims. Then he turns on you and unleashes the full wrath of one of his 'righteous lectures'. You have no idea, he tells you, of the responsibility the Ancient One bears. Frankly, you reply, you do not want to know. You can only imagine what the Sorcerer Supreme must go through day after day, being responsible for the protection of an entire realm; you do not envy her position in the slightest.

Mordo scoffs at your answer. _You are a coward_ , he says, decisively.

You bristle. How are you a coward, you think, for not wanting a job that is both already taken and far, far out of your league? But then you see the challenge in his face and you understand: he is not talking about a position. He is talking about the man you have killed and your inability to cope with it.

If anything, this makes you bristle more. Just because you have never killed before and do not know how to process it, that suddenly makes you a coward? What makes bravery, then? Killing without thought of the consequences? If sorcerers are supposed to be brave and that is how bravery is defined, then you are going to walk away because, as you shout at Mordo, you are not a killer.

Mordo retorts that Kaecilius and his followers aim for the kill. It is only logical that we should too, and move to kill them first.

 _WHAT DO YOU THINK I JUST DID!?_ You thunder, furious now. You have spent this day hopping from a series of one near-death experience to the next and if Mordo thinks that you cannot handle yourself in a life-or-death situation, he needs to think again. You are so,  so fed up with everything this day has thrown at you and you really just want Mordo to stop talking.

Unfortunately, Mordo has no such intention. _You saved your own life,_ he snaps, _then whined about it like a wounded dog!_

You could scream with the frustration this conversation is stirring up in you. Why can Mordo not seem to understand? You have crossed a line that you can never back away from and it terrifies you that you are capable of killing now. What happens if, one day, you decide that you enjoy it? What happens if robbing someone of their life becomes normal for you? You have been taught abilities that no normal human could withstand; if you wanted to, you realize, you could easily kill everyone on the street this Sanctum sits on.

You have a darkness that you did not know you were capable of, and you do not want it. And now Mordo accuses you of cowardice, of _whining_. Because of course  he could have killed that man so easily, you sneer.

 _You have no idea of the things I've done,_ Mordo says darkly. And you believe him. There is something in his face, now, that is hard and emotionless.

He has killed before, you realize. You wonder how long it has been since his first. The man in front of you acts as though it has been a very long time. He would have done it, he tells you, without hesitation.

You eye him, warily, and you make the executive decision to back down. There is a tenseness in his stance that unnerves you – he almost looks as though he is holding himself back.

You do not particularly want to know what he is keeping at bay, so you attempt to diffuse the situation. _Even if there's another way?_ You try.

 _There is no 'other way',_ Mordo snaps.

You are beginning to suspect that killing is the only way Mordo knows how to solve a confrontation, and it worries you. Murder may be the 'permanent' solution, but it is by no means the best one. _You lack imagination,_ you tell Mordo, because you can think of five different ways to restrain Kaecilius right now and you are sure that Mordo can too, given time.

But he steps in close instead, close enough that you have to try not to lean back, and says, _No. You lack the spine._

There is a cold feeling in your stomach as Mordo backs away, because you are realizing that your friend – because he is your friend, despite your disagreements – is a concerningly imbalanced man. A man who has anchored himself on the Ancient One, relying on her as a moral compass and using her to keep himself on the right path. And now you have just planted the seeds of doubt in his mind, that the Ancient One is not who he thinks she is.

You are afraid of what will happen if he loses her guiding influence. You are equally afraid that it will be your fault.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a throbbing hum issuing from the foyer, and your eyes grow wide. You know that sound – you heard it right before the London Sanctum exploded and blew you into New York. You and Mordo exchange panic-filled glances and rush to the staircase, where you find Kaecilius and two new followers conjuring a sphere of yellow-white, twisting magic and you recognize it as the spell that blew up London. You curse viciously to yourself and vault over the bannister; the Cloak activates on your way down and holds you in midair. You whisper a thank-you to it, and it curls around your ankles in a pleased manner.

Mordo, meanwhile, has thrust himself into the midst of the enemy and is fighting like he is two men instead of one, but he is only able to hold the attention of two of the zealots. Kaecilius himself is still holding the spell aloft, and as you watch he moves to slam it into the floor.

No. You will not allow this to happen again, and you shatter the barrier between this dimension and the next with the speed of desperation, plunging all five of you into the Mirror Dimension. You breathe a sigh of relief as your Cloak lowers you to hover above the ground; Kaecilius cannot affect the real world in here. The Sanctum is safe.

You, however, not so much, and from the smirk on Kaecilius' face, he realizes this before you do. He gestures, and the staircase beneath you warps and folds, then the walls, then the ceiling. You abruptly remember his ability to fold matter in the real world, and you feel yourself turn pale. Something tells you that the Mirror Dimension will make his power much worse.

You dart forward, Cloak billowing, and snatch the sling ring from Kaecilius' robes – without it, he cannot escape from the Mirror Dimension and you can leave him trapped here – you hope, anyways – and all but sprint out the mildly warping door into the street beyond. Mordo runs alongside you, and even though you have certain misgivings about him now, you are glad he is on your side. The two of you approach the nearest intersection and you think that, maybe, you will escape from this after all.

But then the perspective warps and shifts and suddenly a car turns into the right-hand lane and is abruptly driving upside down, while an approaching truck from the left hits the intersection and folds down around to the underside of the road, which is now suspended in midair yet somehow still below you. You jerk to a halt and stare, utterly bemused, while Mordo frantically informs you that Kaecilius is actually stronger in the Mirror Dimension than in reality – thanks for saying something before it got out of hand, you think dryly – and how you have effectively committed suicide by bringing everyone here.

Your stomach all but plummets. You are out of breath, you have stitches in your chest and a stab wound that is only hours old, a relic that you barely know how to use, and you are being chased people who want to kill you. Again.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are beginning to suspect that the Universe hates you.

* * *

 **It was at this point that I realized, 'Wow. He almost died a** _ **lot.'**_ **And we're only halfway through this whole showdown.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to ladyneko13 for Favoriting/Following!**


	11. Chapter 11

Your name is Stephen Strange and you are running for your life.

Sprinting might be the more apt word, if your are being honest, but you are also too busy doing said sprinting to deliberate about what to call it. You snap your hands out, sling ring humming to life, and begin carving a gateway to the real world a few dozen feet in front of you. Your plan is that you will reach it right as the spell completes itself.

Kaecilius' plan, unfortunately, moves faster than your plan, and when the whole city suddenly tips sideways and gravity jerks you in a completely new direction, you could scream with fear and frustration. You remember this from your fight in the hallway, and it was bad enough on that small scale.

You really, really do not want to see what Kaecilius will do with the whole of New York at his command.

But it seems that you do not have a choice in the matter, because (as you run up the side of a skyscraper) the cityscape around you is already contorting to Kaecilius' will. Within seconds you are standing amidst an impossible concrete, glass, and metal jungle that morphs even further as you watch and in the process disregards everything you have ever considered dependable about reality.

It hits you, suddenly (and a bit too late, in your opinion) that this was a horrible mistake. In the periphery of your vision you see Mordo turn towards you with incredulity practically oozing from his body language, but then gravity switches again and you are both sent falling into the twisting city below.

Everything blurs, now. You run and dodge past the changing pieces of the landscape and try as best you can to craft a gateway to escape, but something always happens to cut you off or disrupt your concentration before you can reach it. Every now and then you catch sight of Kaecilius and his followers behind you, and it unnerves you how close they are getting. But since the Mirror Dimension is folding to their will, not yours, you can only suppose that it makes sense. Regardless of how much you wish otherwise.

By this point, New York has become unrecognizable. Cement soars over your head in the same manner that birds do, while metal railing under your feet suddenly becomes convinced it is a trampoline. An entire city block rushes past and makes the sound of a train, while you spot an actual train about a mile away being used as a sidewalk – upside down. Kaecilius is pursuing you on a diagonal tangent that is in front of you but somehow moving in the opposite direction, and the zealot who is actually behind you is running on what you perceive to be the ceiling even though they clearly perceive it to be the floor.

The Mirror Dimension give you a headache.

You run forwards in a line that is also a zigzag because of the way the plating beneath your feet is moving, and you have to concentrate on keeping your balance enough that you do not notice Kaecilius has caught up to you until he tackles you sideways (up?), reclaims his sling ring from you and manifests a shattered spear in his hands in order to stab you. There is a small part of your brain that is complaining, 'Seriously, again!?' but most of you is searching for a way out of the choke-hold he has on your neck and ignores this.

Right before Kaecilius moves for his finishing blow, though, the plating you are lying on jerks and detaches from the rest in a way that feels indefinably different from the way that things have been warping up until this point. Pieces of streets and churches move and shift and suddenly, the Ancient One is standing on a tile mosaic with a spell over her hands and a look of ice on her face. An arena forms from the chaos of the Mirror Dimension and you find yourself panting on one end with Mordo looking equally exhausted beside you, and Kaecilius with his followers on the other. The Ancient One stands adjacent to both of you and pins Kaecilius with a Look, one which radiates disappointment and anger.

There is also, you notice, a mark between her eyes. A mark which you recognize, because it is the same mark between Kaecilius' eyes. The mark of Dormammu.

Even though you knew, logically, what she had done, the sight of it still hits you like a punch in the gut. Mordo is taking it even harder – he stares at the Ancient One with an expression of pure betrayal.

 _It's true_ , he whispers, and the Ancient One's eyes shift to him briefly. You catch a fleeting look of regret on her face before she turns back to Kaecilius and the ice hardens again – she is going to face him, you realize.

You prudently move out of the way.

 _Kaecilius_ , the Ancient One says, and the ice crumbles to reveal sorrow. She must have taken his changing sides quite badly, you decide. It must be painful, for a teacher to lose a student like this. But Kaecilius either does not see what you do, or he ignores it, because he does not return the Ancient One's feelings. On the contrary, he only seems to grow more confrontational, and he verbally lashes out at the Ancient One. He rants at her, about how she kept the secret of eternal life from him and how she never truly helped him to heal – all things you have heard him say before, back in the Sanctum. The Ancient One, for her part, tries to reason with him, to bring him back, to make him see.

You want to tell her that he is too far gone to be reasoned with, but all you can bring yourself to do is watch. This standoff between them feels dangerous, as though it will break at any moment, at any trigger. You do not want to be that trigger.

But you do not need to worry about that, because Kaecilius becomes the trigger when he creates another shattered-reality spear in his hands and stalks forward, his followers behind him. In response, the Ancient One's face solidifies back into neutral ice and spells flash on her hands.

It is three against one, and somehow you think that the odds are unfairly balanced against the three. The Ancient One moves like a snake, bending as though her spine has no real limit and hijacking Kaecilius' matter folding to use against him. You can see why she holds the title of Sorcerer Supreme. She is incredible.

But she is not immune to cheap tactics, and Kaecilius is anything but a fair fighter. When he creates a gateway out of the Mirror Dimension, you first think he is retreating. When he forms another shattered spear in his hands, you are confused.

When he runs his own follower through in order to stab the Ancient One on the other side, you are horrified. And when his follower slumps dead to the ground and Kaecilius kicks the Ancient One through the active portal, you are running after her before you even pause to consider your actions.

More fear hits as you pass through the gateway, because Kaecilius has linked it to a spot several hundred feet above New York, and the Ancient One is already halfway down and falling ever faster. She hits a glass overhang and crashes straight through, then collides with the concrete sidewalk below and lies there motionless – and all you can do is watch it happen. You are kneeling at her side moments later, desperately feeling for a pulse and frantically cataloguing her injuries – multiple lacerations, heavy impact trauma, irregular heartbeat, loss of consciousness, deep abdominal puncture wound and that's just what you can find without equipment – then two of the symptoms come back and hit you in the face. Irregular heartbeat. Heavy impact trauma. You curse viciously inside your head, because sometimes you really wish you didn't have so much medical knowledge. She has severe brain damage, likely from the impact with the concrete, and it's causing a neurogenic stunned myocardium. This is bad. If her nerve damage isn't treated, her heart is going to continue to malfunction and it will kill her.

You need to get help. You glance up, searching for literally anything, and your eyes find a familiar sign down the street: New York Hospital. You could laugh with relief, if it were not so very out-of-place and inappropriate at the moment.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and it looks like you will be seeing Christine again sooner than you thought.

* * *

 **Good** _ **glory**_ **this movie got angsty at this part. I didn't even realize until I had to write it out. I mean, look at this mess!**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **VerifiedFanaticalDivision and Leafstar16 for Favoriting/Following!**


	12. Chapter 12

Your name is Stephen Strange and you have never hated the inside of a hospital as much as you do in this moment.

You have gotten the Ancient One onto a stretcher by way of yelling at some very intimidated orderlies in the lobby and you shout for Christine as you push your teacher down the hallways. Christine, ever the prompt responder, is at your side in seconds and you give her all the information you have on the Ancient One's condition. The mere mention of a stunned myocardium is enough to gain access to the ER, but the fact that her condition is neurogenic takes the cake. It takes mere minutes for the Ancient One to be admitted for surgery, and you finagle (bully) your way into the operating room through sheer force of will and an absolute refusal to be removed.

Of course, your multiple wounds, unusual clothing, and the fact that you look about ready to snap at the slightest provocation might have something to do with it as well. Whatever the case, you are ignoring it in favor of focusing on the much more pressing issue of your mentor is dying.

And the worst part?

Your hands are shaking far too much for you to help her. You want so badly to just pick up the scalpel and help, but your lack of ability to hold still will only make it worse. You are forced to rely on Nick – Nick! – to do it instead.

...Granted, you may be selling Nick a bit short. Your old personality is influencing your opinion a bit, and if you look at his skills from a logical standpoint you admit that he is, in fact, a perfectly capable – possibly even slightly above average – doctor.

But that does not change the fact that it hurts to have to hand over the scalpel to someone else, to put the Ancient One's life in someone else's hands because yours cannot be trusted. It hurts more than you are willing to admit.

If you get the chance, you resolve, after this you are going to sit down with all the books on all the medical spells you can find. Regardless of the outcome today, not having the ability to heal in your arsenal has shown itself to be a grave oversight and you are bound and determined to correct it.

But that will wait. Because the Ancient One has just stopped breathing. The shrill alarm of the pulse machine rings in your ears and you frantically bark an order because it is all you can do to help-

-the machine flickers.

It flickers like there is a power outage, but that does not make sense because nothing else is being affected. You are hit with the feeling that you and the surgeons are not the only people in the room anymore. Your eyes narrow: you know these signs.

You eject yourself from your body before you can quite think your decision through, but then again the situation at hand does not particularly call for thinking things through. You catch sight of the Ancient One 's astral form gliding through the far wall as you right yourself and you take off after her, half-worried and half-irate. She needs to return to her body right this instant because she is dying right now and you do not feel ready to lose your teacher. You do not feel ready at all.

Yes, she has done some things that you would not approve of, and yes, you have not had the closest relationship with her, but you understand why. You understand that she was afraid of losing yet another student to the darkness and you can accept her reasons for keeping her distance. At the end of the day, she taught you how to live again and gave you the tools to put your life back together.

How can you be ready to lose that influence?

The Ancient One comes to a stop on a balcony of the employee cafeteria, and you draw up beside her anxiously. You have the intent of persuading her back to her body, but the Ancient One has her own agenda and as usual you end up surrendering yours to listen instead. It helps, too, that the world has frozen around you; you can listen to the Ancient One's words and still have time to convince her to go back.

 _I've spent years looking at this exact moment,_ she says _, but I can never see any further._ She believes that she will die here. As expected, there is a large part of you that objects vehemently to this and demands that you get her back to her body as a preventative measure. However, the rest of you is caught on the fact that the Ancient One can, apparently, see the future.

You wonder if she can see other's futures, or just her own. Even though this is hardly the time for curiosity, you have always had a mind that thought about three things at once and this question has now become one of those things.

She sees it, of course, like she saw your arrogance when you two first met and your potential when she left you on Everest, and she laughs. You have never seen her laugh before, and it surprises you. She looks so very carefree when she laughs at your embarrassed admittance of your thoughts and when it fades she continues to smile.

She never saw your future specifically, she tells you happily. She saw your possibilities, the man you could be or the monster you could become. She does not say it out loud, but you receive the impression that she is proud of the path you walk now. It is in the way she smiles at you, the way she emphasizes what is likely her very last piece of advice as your teacher. _It's not about you,_ she says earnestly. It is life's great lesson, she believes, and she is determined to share it with you. So of course you take it to heart, because why would you not?

And it seems that she truly does believe she is dying, because her next words impart a secret to you. She has never 'healed' anyone who came to Kamar-Taj. Those who came broken and left whole have healed themselves – using magic, their magic, to do so. The implications hit you like a punch to the stomach, and you cannot help your mouth dropping a bit in shock.

You could redirect your power to your hands, permanently, and all the damage from the crash and the operations would be healed. You could go back to the hospital and become a surgeon again; reclaim your job, your penthouse, your entire former life.

You do not realize that your thoughts have become your words until the Ancient One replies, _You could. But the world would be all the lesser for it._ And you pause, because now you have a choice to make and you suspect that the Ancient One is, in her own way, waiting for your decision.

Your old life holds money, prestige, reputation. People hung on your words, clamored for your services, lined up to be treated by you. You were wanted in a way that very few people ever are. And it went to your head in the worst possible way, you admit to yourself. And because of that...

Your old life held loneliness. It was empty in a way that you were not capable of recognizing at the time. You pushed away the people that mattered most, veritably ruined any workplace relationships you might have had, only associated with the people who were willing enough to exalt you above themselves. Your reputation mattered more than your patients did and you turned so many people away...

It hurts, now, to think about how many you could have helped if you had not had your head stuffed with your own superiority.

And not only that, but you would be giving up your magic. You would have to constantly use it on your hands and nothing else. Quickly, you test the theory, and you can feel the power in your core fade as it reroutes to your fingers. You have a brief moment of disorientation and slight panic, because against all odds you have gotten used to the constant shaking of your hands and the lack of it is jarring, but also because you are used to being able to feel your magic. There is a cold spot in your core where it used to be and it surprises you how vehemently you dislike the sensation. You immediately stop channeling and suppress a shiver. No, you decide, giving up your magic is not something you are willing to do.

Which, now that you think about it, makes your answer fairly clear, but you want to look at both sides of this decision because that is just how you think. Continuing with your life as a sorcerer will probably put you in more life-or-death situations like this one, especially given that sorcerers are the designated barrier in between Earth's dimension and the other ones. You'll likely have to deal with odd magical side effects, not to mention your semi-sentient relic which you know is going to be a handful at some point. Normal clothes will probably be ruined for you completely within the next two weeks (as if they weren't already) and you can already throw a normal relationship with Christine out the window as you highly doubt she will ever forget seeing you outside of your body.

But, you are no longer an arrogant jerk. You have learned to look beyond yourself, even if it is still a work in progress. And somehow, that almost outweighs all of the possible downsides by itself.

Put your magic and your relic on top of that, and... well.

Your choice is suddenly much, much easier.

You square your posture in a silent declaration of your decision, and the Ancient One's smile grows just a bit more. Neither of you say your thoughts out loud; the moment, you feel, would be ruined if you did.

The Ancient One lets the silence resonate for a second more, then begins to explain to you her reasoning for her connection with the Dark Dimension. She asks you to watch over Mordo for her: sometimes, she says, one must break the rules in order to serve the greater good, but she is well aware that Mordo is too set in his ways to see her actions in that light. She is hoping that your own ability to bend with the circumstances, to see new solutions and possibilities, might be able to influence him enough to keep him from falling prey to what she fears of his fate. You will need him at your side if you hope to defeat Kaecilius, she tells you, and you agree. Mordo, though he has his demons, is a formidable fighter and you will welcome any help you can get in the face of world destruction.

Because that is what is at risk, now. The destruction of the entire planet. And the Ancient One's plan for its salvation is you and Mordo. You know she likes to put faith in unlikely places, but you are quite sure that she has put it in the wrong place this time. There is no conceivable way that you are possibly ready to be responsible for the fate of the world. You are not even ready to be responsible for a Sanctum. Earth? How are you in any way ready for this?

 _No one ever is_ , the Ancient One says wisely. _We don't get to choose our time._

The irony is not lost on you, even though you do not appreciate it much.

 _Death is what gives life meaning_ , the Ancient One continues, and her hand finds its way into yours. _To know your days are numbered, that your time is short._

Her philosophy is so very different from Kaecilius', but you find yourself liking hers much more. Death hurts, yes, because it takes what we love. But the reason we cling so tightly to those people is because we know that, one day, we will lose them. We cherish the time we have because it is a limited resource.

If time had no limit, if death had no meaning... would we still love like we do? You do not know, not really, because who could possibly know something like that? But you suspect, and that is enough. Your suspicions have a habit of being correct, after all.

The Ancient One is gazing out at the world, watching the storm that has rolled in during her surgery. Lightning crawls across the sky and her eyes track every jagged movement.

 _You'd think that after all this time, I'd be ready_ , she says thoughtfully, and her fingers grip tighter for just a moment. You want to turn to face her, to argue, to refuse to let her go and drag her back to her body if you have to, but all you can do is hold on to her hand and look blankly out at the storm. These are her last words and you hate that fact with more vehemence than you thought you would.

Because last words mean that the Ancient One is dying, and there is nothing you can do about it.

And suddenly, her hand is no longer in yours. Your head turns to your hand and finds nothing, then looks up at where she used to be. There is an empty space beside you where she floated only seconds ago, and the starkness of it is startling. You can still feel the pressure of her hand in yours and you press your lips together to keep your emotions in check.

The Ancient One is dead.

You make your way back to your body in a mild haze. It surprises you, somewhat, to find that your body has yet to hit the floor, but then you remember that the world has been frozen since you followed the Ancient One to the balcony. You slip back inside yourself and quickly reestablish muscle control before you can actually hit the floor, but no one notices because time has picked back up again and the Ancient One's body is flatlining on the table.

You stay out of the way of the doctors who try and resuscitate her, because you already know she is gone. They are prepping the defibrillators a second time when you simply leave the operating room altogether and move, dreamlike, to the sink in the next room, where you remove the scrubs you had borrowed (demanded) from an intern and just stand and let the water run over your hands.

The sensation of the Ancient One's fingers around yours is still there. You cannot seem to stop feeling them.

You do not know how long you stand there at the sink, but at some point your Cloak lets itself in and floats against a nearby wall, and eventually Christine joins you one faucet over. Slowly, one of your hands moves over to grip one of hers, and you are grateful that at least she can hold herself steady. Your hands are shaking, but you cannot tell if it is because of your nerve damage or because you can still feel a phantom hand wrapped around them.

Possibly both.

You are eternally thankful that Christine seems to know how you are feeling without you having to say it. She does not say anything when you place your hands on her face, both for the comfort of her presence and the stability of an unmoving surface that it provides, but instead brings up her own hand to cover one of yours. You want to just stay here, with her, and be able to express your grief and pretend like you haven't just been handed the world to save, but you have.

And you need to go save it. You explain this to Christine to the best of your ability – by quoting her, of all things – and she understands, even finishing the quote for you. She is still wary of your new abilities, that much is obvious, but it seems as though she might be willing to give you a chance.

Well, another chance. Frankly, you are simply grateful that she wants to associate with you at all, given your past history together.

But she says goodbye with a kiss on your cheek, and you think that maybe, your relationship with her is not as broken as you thought it was. Maybe, if you do not die today, you might have a chance to patch things up and even be counted as her friend again.

It will have to wait, but the thought gives you hope. And with that in mind you call your Cloak over, take a moment to brace yourself, and-

-and have a brief argument with your relic about the appropriateness of it wiping your cheeks dry – when had your grief spilled over? – while you are trying to psyche yourself up. You appreciate the gesture, just not right at this moment. You spend a few moments clarifying that to the Cloak, which flutters its corners at you, then cast a gateway out of the hospital and back to Kamar-Taj, where Mordo is waiting for you.

You tell him that the Ancient One has passed. Somehow, his already stone-carved face grows even more expressionless, and you can feel your stomach sink. In the chaos of everything that has happened, you had forgotten that Mordo had learned about the Ancient One' use of the Dark Dimension.

It does not look as though he has taken it well. And what he says confirms your thoughts: Kaecilius, he says, was the Ancient One's fault. She violated that which should not be touched, he believes, and now we are paying for her sins.

Mordo is like iron, you remember, unmoving and rigid. But the problem with being rigid is that, with too much pressure, you break. You are afraid that Mordo may have cracked.

So you quickly turn the conversation to the oncoming battle, in an effort to keep Mordo from breaking entirely. London and New York have been attacked and Hong Kong is the only Sanctum that remains unscathed. You need to go there, now, and you need Mordo's help to stop Kaecilius from succeeding. You use every tactic you can think of to convince Mordo to come with you, including quoting the man as directly as you can from your training session weeks ago.

Mordo stares at the middle distance while you talk, but in the end he nods slowly, once. He does not meet your eyes, but it is enough for you, for now, and you quickly carve another gateway to China before he can change his mind. You take a moment to thank the existence of Google Earth for being able to show you the image of the Hong Kong sanctum, because otherwise you would have no image to focus on. You also wonder, briefly, if the gateway spell requires that the caster have actually been to the destination at some point, but the circle spirals open in a shower of red-gold sparks as always and you decide not to think about it too much and to just be grateful for small miracles.

Mordo glances at you as the gateway stabilizes and you look back; then the two of you break into a sprint and leap through the portal to face your fates.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and for some unfathomable reason, the continued existence of the human race is now in your damaged hands.

* * *

 **I really,** _ **really**_ **hope I did the Ancient One's last scene justice. So much went on behind the words in this one and I think I may have set a new word count in the process of trying to dictate it all. Grief is prolific, guys.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Stardust: Thank you so much! I'll be honest, the use of the second person POV was the thing that had me scared the most to post this story. Hearing that someone thinks it's the best feature makes me ridiculously giddy. And I'm glad you like my 'Your name is…' gimmick. That was the thing that had me scared the second most to post this story. You have single-handedly assuaged all my fears about this thing in one fell swoop ;)**


	13. Chapter 13

Your name is Stephen Strange and you have just walked into a war zone.

People are screaming and running every which way, while power lines spark and fires rage. Cars are impaled through buildings and gasoline is pooling on the concrete, dangerously close to the downed electric cables. And above it all, the Dark Dimension consumes the Hong Kong Sanctum with a slow, inexorable hunger that spreads with every passing moment.

You are too late.

Your feet come to a staggering halt and you stare up at the disaster unfolding above your head. The Dark Dimension writhes and contorts like it possesses a consciousness of its own, and tendrils of black-violet energy snake out and wrap around the nearest buildings like a horribly disfigured octopus. In the distance, Kaecilius and two followers march towards you with purpose and triumph on their faces.

You have lost.

 _Dormammu is coming_ , Mordo rasps next to you, his eyes empty and hollow. _Nothing can stop him_.

Your mind automatically rebels against this statement for no other reason than that it is slightly more appealing than the alternative. Thoughts race through your head like fire, frantically validating and discarding and searching for something – anything – that might be able to fix this. You run through the list of all the spells you know. Nothing. You go over all the spells that Mordo might know. Still nothing. You take a census of the items you have on-

You abruptly realize that you are still wearing the Eye of Agamotto. You had completely forgotten about it, in the mayhem of trying not to be killed.

Technically, the Eye cannot stop Dormammu. What it can do, is rewind him.

You stream your power into the Eye around your neck and flash through the hand signs as quickly as the process will let you. As if the Eye senses the need for urgency, the matrix of the spell forms around your arm and beneath your hand within seconds.

Down the street, Kaecilius breaks into a run. His eyes are locked on your hands, which are now holding the conduit for the spell, and he looks absolutely livid. You strain to move the spell faster. Not just your hands are shaking now as you force your power into the matrix beneath your fingers in response to its demands. The faster the spell, the faster the draw, you realize, and a yell of effort breaks from your throat as you give the Eye one final push.

The database around your arm flares, and an echoing, grinding noise resounds through what seems to be the air itself – and the world freezes in place. You gasp as the Eye consumes a huge chunk of your magic in payment before settling down into a slow but steady draw, and you nearly lose the matrix of the spell for a moment. In front of you, Kaecilius is utterly still, trapped in unmoving time like an insect in amber, and you prudently move out of the way. A shattered-reality spear is approximately two inches from your forehead and you thank all your lucky stars that the Eye activated in time.

You grit your teeth as the Eye begins to move time in reverse and takes another portion of your power to do so, but once it has done that it seems that the Eye can operate on its own, as long as you have the magic to maintain the spell matrix. As you watch, Kaecilius moves backwards in midair, un-forms his spear, lands back on the ground a few feet away, and then sprints backwards until he joins his followers where all three of them continue to march in reverse. Beside you, Mordo is carrying out his previous actions as well, and you quickly aim the Eye's matrix at him and concentrate to bring your partner out of the spell. Mordo stumbles over nothing in surprise as he becomes aware of his surroundings and stares around with wide eyes at the reversing world.

 _We've got a second chance,_ you bark, and take off sprinting towards the slowly-restoring Sanctum, dodging reverse civilians and debris as you go. You catch a quick glimpse of Kaecilius and his followers removing themselves from your spell as you rush past, and you take a moment to appreciate exactly how annoying that fact is.

But a moment is all the time you can spare.

Everything around you is chaos. Between dodging Kaecilius' strikes, you dodge bits of debris, reverse-driving cars, and entire walls that reassemble mere inches from your head. At one point your Cloak drags you down and around to prevent you from being decapitated by metal sheeting rushing by to rejoin its original building, and you note yet another reason to sit down and thank your relic if you survive this. It really is up in the air at this point; if Kaecilius does not kill you, the flying bricks and reforming buildings might. You throw yourself to the side as a car careens backwards through the street and un-smashes a noodle kiosk before vanishing into the distance, while Kaecilius takes advantage of your distraction and hits you in the chest. He misses your stitches only just, and you let out a pained hiss before leaping backwards as a fire hydrant comes shooting in and reaffixes itself to the ground, while the lake of water recedes and vanishes beneath the metal fixture in the same moment.

The cacophony of a disaster sounds unworldly in reverse, and when you hear a warped rumbling you are almost afraid to look. A dust cloud is rising up in the rewound version of settling down and it looks for all the world like a thunderstorm about to arrive. You clamp your mouth shut and squint just in time for the dust beneath your feet to shoot into the air, and you promptly trip over a stray two-by-four that has not yet reconstituted into its building yet. The dust around you begins to swirl as the cause for the cloud plays itself out and as it grows it howls in your ears, demented and alien-sounding. The debris roils like boiling water, and you can hardly see ten feet in front of you, which nearly gets you killed for the umpteenth time this day alone when Kaecilius appears from the brown maelstrom and goes for your head.

You block, but barely, and the next few seconds are solely devoted to staying alive. You only partially notice when the cloud front of the dust storm rolls back and vanishes into the base of the slowly rising Sanctum, occupied as you are with your opponent.

Then Mordo appears, looking haggard but determined, and with one move sends Kaecilius bodily through the air and into a wall – literally, as it rebuilds itself around him despite his best efforts. You hold yourself on your knees and pant, watching as the spell continues to work on your surroundings and the Sanctum is slowly rid of the Dark Dimension's invasive presence. You can already tell that you are going to be practically depleted and absolutely exhausted once this spell runs its course, but you can't bring yourself to regret that.

A heap of rubble in front of you un-piles itself and rejoins the nearby wall, revealing the body of Wong impaled on a metal spike. You jolt into a standing position, eyes wide, and watch as Wong lifts up off the pole and settles to the ground in a fighting stance, with a relic you recognize as the Wand of Watoomb held in one hand. You quickly snap your hands into position and, with effort, push just a bit more of your power into the spell matrix of the Eye to bring Wong out of the sphere of influence. He stumbles, looks around, and blinks at you with a mix of clear confusion and his usual blankness. Before he can lecture you, you inform him that you already know you are probably grievously misusing time magic and breaking the laws of nature, but you really couldn't care less at the moment.

Much to your considerable surprise, however, Wong takes a look at the restoring Sanctum and the pole he was just impaled upon, and simply says, _Well, don't stop now._

You nod, grateful for his support, then refocus on the Sanctum. It has almost been fully restored now, which means that you will have another chance to defend it. You fully intend to be successful this time.

But your intent, it seems, is not a popular one. The ground abruptly shakes beneath your feet and then a shockwave slams into your back, knocking you to the ground and breaking both your concentration on the time spell and the database matrix encircling your arm. With another resounding grinding, time around you slows to a complete halt.

Kaecilius, you realize vaguely. It seems that the wall was not as good of a jail as you hoped it would be.

People across the street are frozen mid-gait in their panicked running. An unobservant street chef stirs his noodles, which hang in midair above the skillet almost artfully. And the Sanctum rises above it all, caught in a half-destroyed, half-restored state that looks so very wrong for some reason. It takes you a minute to realize why: although everything is still, the Dark Dimension still writhes and contorts within the confines of the frozen building. You stare blankly at the sight, struggling to process it. Time is not moving. So why is the Dark Dimension?

 _Isn't it beautiful,_ Kaecilius says, almost lovingly as you struggle to your feet. _A world beyond time; beyond death._ He is gazing up at the Dark Dimension with an expression that could almost be described as worshipful, and you grimace.

Then his words register in your head and you stop, halfway to your feet as the full implications of the phrase _beyond time_ hits you.

There may be a way to save Earth after all.

It is an incredibly stupid plan, your rational side tells you. There are a thousand different ways it can go wrong that you can think of and likely even more that you cannot. You are not even sure that you will survive.

But it is the only chance you have.

So before you can talk yourself out of it, you rise into the air with your Cloak and turn towards the Dark Dimension, flying as fast as you dare out of your dimension and into another. The Cloak flaps against your collarbone in a way that almost seems nervous, and you cannot help but mirror that sentiment.

You land on what can be closest described as an planetoid and take a deep breath, then reach down into your core and pull up the very last reserves of your magic that you can find. You feed it all into the Eye and carefully form the spell matrix around your arm again, but you are not intending to rewind time now. You are going to be doing something much, much stupider.

The relic on your chest takes all you have to give without hesitation and it leaves you feeling empty and drained in a way that you have never felt before, but you stiffen your muscles and brace yourself despite it because you still have a world to save and it will not be saving itself.

Then you look up. And you are staring into the largest, most malevolent eye you have ever seen. The color violet has never been so very worthy of absolute terror, and you do not understand how you have never thought it to be more frightening before this. This violet is fire, is torment, is death.

And you have seen it before. Just briefly, nearly lost in a flood of other dimensions that the Ancient One showed you in her very first lesson to you. But that color, those eyes, you remember them. You remember them being far, far bigger than you could even comprehend and belonging to something dark and warped that was somehow even larger.

Your memory does not do justice. Because the being in front of you cannot be described with the word 'big'. You are not even sure he can be described, period. Despite your eidetic memory and vast repertoire of knowledge and language, you simply cannot think of a word that can even come close to describing how large this being is.

You are standing on a planetoid. This creature could hold the planetoid in the palm of his hand. His form twists and contorts on the edges in a way that is not unlike how sorcerers manipulate the Mirror Dimension – it seems to break all laws of physics. He is overwhelming _._

He is Dormammu. And you, the idiot that you are, have come to bargain with him.

It goes as well as you expect. You are a gnat to him, possibly smaller and less significant that even that. Who are you to strike a bargain with him? What do you possibly have that Dormammu could want?

You can see these thoughts on Dormammu's face and you see the attack before it comes. Panic makes you reach for your magic, heedless of the fact that you gave the last of it to the Eye mere moments ago, and somehow you drag up reserves that you did not know you had. Shield spells blaze to life under your hands, shining brilliant gold and far larger than anything you have managed to conjure before – and they do not flicker even once. You deflect one projectile, then another, and another and another and another and then Dormammu blasts a literal laser at you and you level your shield at the brunt of it and somehow, you hold off the attack for ten whole seconds until your newfound power reserve finally gives out and your shield breaks-

* * *

You land on what can be closest described as an planetoid and take a deep breath, then reach down into your core and pull up the very last reserves of your magic that you can find. You feed it all into the Eye and carefully form the spell matrix around your arm again, but you are not intending to rewind time now. You are going to be doing something much, much stupider-

Memories suddenly slam into your head and you reel for a moment. You have just died – you expected to, in all honesty, but experiencing it is still a thoroughly unnerving experience. But you set your jaw and shove the memory of your body disintegrating beneath the laser to the back of your mind, because you have a bargain to make and a dimensional entity to make it with.

Dormammu is confused, but he reacts in much the same way as last time. However, you only get a second of awareness before spires of stone slice down and pierce straight through your-

* * *

You land on what can be closest described as an planetoid and take a deep breath, then reach down into your core and pull up the very last reserves of your magic that you can find. You feed it all into the Eye and carefully form the spell matrix around your arm again, but you are not intending to rewind time now. You are going to be doing something much, much stupider-

You jerk as your second death hits you and take a deep, fortifying breath. Then you turn to face Dormammu a third time and attempt to drive your bargain.

This time, Dormammu can tell what you have done and you cannot discern whether he pities your stupidity or relishes the chance to kill you more than once.

As his fist comes down on your head, you decide it is probably the latter-

* * *

You land on what can be closest described as an planetoid and take a deep breath, then reach down into your core and pull up the very last reserves of your magic that you can find. You feed it all into the Eye and carefully form the spell matrix around your arm again, but you are not intending to rewind time now. You are going to be doing something much, much stupider-

Your third death crashes down on you and you nearly fall over. But there is no time for that, and you quickly push that memory back with deaths one and two.

Dormammu tries to talk you out of your decision. He threatens you, promises to make you hurt for all the endless loops you trap him in.

You simply smile. It is small, a bit grim, and definitely not your best, but it is also determined. _Pain's an old friend,_ you say.

Your mind is just quick enough to process the blast of violet before it hits-

* * *

Once again, you shove your latest death to the back of your mind. Once again, you go to bargain. Once again, Dormammu laughs in your face.

Once again, he kills you.

Spears in your chest are _really_ getting to be quite old-

* * *

You've come to bargain.

You've come to die.

An asteroid lands on your head-

* * *

Tentacles devour you-

* * *

The ground crushes you-

* * *

Whips of pure energy wrap around your neck and jerk-

* * *

Death seventeen. Burned.

Death forty-two. Buried.

Death one-hundred twenty. Suffocated.

Death two hundred eighty-six. Ripped.

Death four hundred thirty-five. Stabbed.

Death five-hundred and one. Beheaded.

Death seven-hundred ninety-four. Obliterated.

Death eight-hundred sixty-six. Drowned.

Death one-thousand twelve. Impaled.

* * *

You have lost count.

* * *

But you keep making the bargain. Because if you do not, then Dormammu is free. If you do not, the Earth is doomed.

As long as you hold him here, the people you care about are safe. So you will keep making this bargain again, and again, and again, and again, and again, as long as it takes. And if it takes eternity, so be it.

* * *

You are wearing him down.

Dormammu has been more and more violent with his choice in killing you, and you can tell it belies his growing frustration. He had expected you to give up long ago, and while you have no doubt that he greatly enjoys finding new and unusual ways to decapitate you, your sheer tenacity is infuriating him.

You were told, once that you were stubborn enough to outlast God. While you in no way consider Dormammu to be a deity (much less THE deity), you will admit that he is significantly more powerful than yourself.

You are gratified to live up to your description as Dormammu, after uncountable repetitions, finally breaks.

 _SET ME FREE!_ He bellows as he kills you with a rain of shards from above.

You shove this death back with all the others and face your prisoner just like you have so many times already. Burning violet eyes glare at you with enough malevolence to make a mortal drop dead, but he has already killed you once that way and you have more important things to consider right now.

 _No,_ you say, because the only thing Dormammu can do is kill you and that is nothing new anymore. _I've come to bargain._

Your prisoner draws in closer and you fully expect to be killed for your insolence (again) but instead Dormammu narrows his blazing eyes and hisses, _What do you want?_

You make your bargain. Dormammu will remove his zealots from the Earth and cease his attack; he will never invade it again. In return, you will break the spell of the loop you have been sustaining all this time.

Dormammu regards you, then opens the earth beneath you and slams it shut on your body.

You push that death in the corner too and repeat your bargain.

Dormammu snarls at you impotently, and he knows it too. You can see on his face how much he hates you and the bargain you are driving and how he would so very much like to kill you permanently.

But you have given him no choice.

And Dormammu accepts your bargain.

 _Pleasure doing business with you_ , you say, and in response Dormammu explodes your brain by boiling your inner fluids. You brush aside the death and glare at him.

 _You may have won this battle_ , Dormammu growls, _but I will kill you permanently soon enough._

You decide that you will leave before breaking the loop. You have a feeling you have overstayed your welcome by about half an eternity.

* * *

You land behind Kaecilius and immediately lock your muscles down to avoid just collapsing outright. Your body is screaming from all the different ways it has been killed and your magic is so low that it might as well not be there at all. By all rights you should have run out a long, long time ago but you have managed to feed just enough of a trickle to the Eye of Agamotto for it to keep the loop running through every one of your deaths. Likely, you diagnose, you were giving what you had as soon as it regenerated, and now that the loop is no longer active, you can feel the void of your power slowly filling back in.

Still though, it is an accomplishment that you are able to remain standing.

 _What have you done?_ Kaecilius accuses, hands twitching. You can see the blackness around his eyes beginning to crawl across his face and you smile grimly.

 _I made a bargain. You're about to get everything you ever wanted._ You nod towards his hands, which are turning dark and crumbling. _You're not gonna like it._

Watching Dormammu's power overtake the man is something you would prefer to never watch again if you can help it, but you do not take your eyes off the process. If you ever, ever begin to have stupid ideas about drawing power from questionable sources, you want to remember this moment as the top reason why it is a bad idea. You may not get to the warnings in the books, after all. Really, why on earth do the warnings come after the spells? Once you get back to Kamar-Taj that is going to be one of the first things you change. Put the warnings before the spells, maybe there will be less stupid people like Kaecilius (and yourself) doing enchantments with no ideas of the consequences.

Kaecilius and his followers vanish into the void of the Dark Dimension and you take a deep breath. You apologize to your body as you reach down and yet again pull out all the magic you have left in order to fuel the Eye. After so many loops sustaining the relic you practically have muscle memory of how to work it by now, and you rewind the world around you back to normality within seconds before releasing the spell once and for all.

You stagger as the full drain of everything you have done hits you. There is a hole where your magic is supposed to be, you are about to collapse whether you want to or not, you have nearly and actually died so many times today that no one would ever believe you, and you are so utterly exhausted.

When Mordo leaves, his trust shattered by the Ancient One's (in his mind) betrayal, you barely remember why. For you it was over a thousand deaths ago and you are struggling somewhat to reconnect yourself to what is happening.

Though it takes you a minute, you are able to recognize that Mordo has not been able to reconcile himself with the day's events. _The bill comes due,_ he says, mournfully. _Always_.

He walks away, and you do not have the strength to stop him. You barely have the strength to remain conscious. The world around you is swaying, and it takes you a moment to realize that you are actually the one swaying, not the city.

Wong, thankfully, catches you as you go down. What he does not support, your Cloak does, rippling softly against your back as it keeps you from the ground.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and given that you have just saved the world, you feel your impending lack of consciousness is somewhat warranted at the moment.

* * *

 **And as of right now, I have officially run out of canon events. Wanna see where I go with the aftermath? Me too. I'm… still working out the kinks.**

 **Changeling**

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 **Thanks to** **draggah7 for Favoriting/Following!**

* * *

 **Stardust: Yeah, funny thing about that. I was writing my way into the hospital and it occurred to me that, 'All thing considered, regardless of whether Stephen was a former doctor here or not the hospital staff isn't going to allow a random bystander into the** _ **ICU,**_ **much less the** _ **operating room**_ **of all places. How on Earth did he get in there?' I eventually settled on 'too much panic/urgency for the staff to care' and 'massive intimidation factor'. But yeah, real life doesn't skip around the way a movie narrative does, so I needed to figure out how to get Stephen from Point A to Point B. That's just basically how I chose to do it.**


	14. Chapter 14

Your name is Stephen Strange and by the Vishanti you have never been this sore in your life.

Getting yourself vertical is a challenge in its own right, and walking is a whole other beast. Your brain is just functional enough to note that you are back in the New York Sanctum, which lets you slowly and painfully navigate your way out of the room you are in and down the hallway. You had poked around, briefly, before Kaecilius had started trying to kill you during your first visit and had found the living quarters, which is where you are now. There is a kitchen through the second door on your left.

You make it just in time to support yourself on the granite counter before you can fall over. Your next move is to (slowly) make yourself the strongest cup of coffee you can brew. You all but collapse into the nearest chair with your beverage and spend a long time simply sitting. Occasionally you drink your coffee, when you remember it exists.

Kaecilius is gone.

You remember it, obviously, because your memory is eidetic and you almost never forget anything, but you have trouble believing it. He tried to kill you so many times. He almost succeeded.

You bargained with Dormammu.

You succeeded, too, but at a cost. Your deaths linger in the back of your mind, waiting like wolves, and even though you do not remember dreaming you are tired enough that you suspect your sleep was not entirely peaceful. Your only saving grace right now is the fact that you cannot actually separate one death from another. You have so many, tucked in your head, that they have all blurred. You may remember them all but that does not mean you remember them individually, and it makes the details hazy and hard to grasp.

Small mercies, you think, and remember your coffee. You take a generous sip.

You have a relic.

You finally have the time to process everything, and it suddenly hits you. A relic chose you as its wielder. The Cloak of Levitation. It saved your life at least three times within an hour of your meeting it and for some unfathomable reason it stayed with you through all the loops and deaths involved in driving your bargain with Dormammu. There must be something it likes about you, you decide, for it to stay through all that. You rather wish you knew what that was.

As if on cue, the Cloak glides in through a different doorway and curls itself around your shoulders, nuzzling with its collar. You let out a quiet snort, but obligingly lean forward off the back of the chair so your relic can position itself properly. You have barely known the Cloak for a day, but there is already an established language of nonverbal cues that you trade with the relic when you communicate. More on its end, obviously, because the Cloak has no mouth, but you have a good chunk of silent vocabulary as well. There is a surprising amount of body language involved in telling the Cloak which way you want to fly and how fast you want to go.

You sag back against the comforting support of the chair and a sloshing noise reminds you of your coffee. You take another sip.

The Ancient One is dead.

This alone would normally be enough to give you pause, but right now it is simply another item in a very long list of things you are trying to process. Your teacher, the woman who gave you a second chance and saw the man you could be, is dead. And aside from all the personal ramifications, she was the Sorcerer Supreme. Her absence is going to create a lot of problems in the future, if you had to guess.

You are going to miss her. Terribly. But you cannot bring her back, and even if you could you are sure there is a warning somewhere which would tell you exactly why that would be a bad idea. You are also quite sure that, should you ever bring the Ancient One back to life, she would likely slap you for your stupidity. So you will simply settle for making her proud, wherever she is now. With any luck, you already have. You take comfort in this, at least.

Mordo is gone.

Not like Kaecilius, or dead like the Ancient One. He left. You could not keep him with you, could not make him see that rules can be bent without making them break. You rest your head in your hand and wince as your neck protests this movement – you have recently been relieved of your head in far too many ways and your spine has been thoroughly abused as a result.

You wish you could have stopped him, but you cannot think of what you could have said to make him stay. At least, you think, he is not dead. You will have another chance to speak with him, and maybe then you can explain.

You remember your coffee again and take another sip. You grimace. You have not particularly noticed until just now, but you really do not like the flavor of the beverage in your hand.

You painfully push yourself to your feet and brew a cup of tea instead. You stir in some honey and take a speculative mouthful – much better.

You gratefully return to your chair, new beverage cupped in your hands, and stare at the middle distance.

You saved the world.

Granted, it took a thousand deaths, deliberate breaking of the natural law, and the complete depletion of your magic, but you saved the world. You. The man who, once upon a time, refused to help anyone unless it benefited you in some way.

You saved the world and nobody knows but you.

Technically, that is untrue. Wong knows, and Mordo, because they were there, and you are sure by now that Wong has spread the word that Kaecilius is no more and Dormammu has retreated.

But nobody was there to see what you did to save it. Nobody but you, your Cloak, and Dormammu, and two of these three are not going to be talking about it. You rather doubt that you will either.

Quite a change from your past, you muse wryly, and sip your tea. Your surgeon self did not perform an operation unless he was in a viewing room, where students and lesser doctors could watch him work. Were he in your situation a few hours ago, he doubtless would have called Dormammu down so that all the people could watch him sacrifice himself for them. For their adoration.

You snort. You gulp at your tea.

He would not have lasted past death ten. Your ribcage flares at the memory of death ten, which had been blunt force trauma to the chest when Dormammu had flicked you across an entire planetoid. You shudder, and down the rest of your tea in one go.

Your Cloak detaches itself from your shoulders and brings back the kettle to pour you another cup. You breathe a quiet thank-you and take a more controlled sip.

Your core feels unoccupied and cold. Upon further examination you discover that this is not true, but there is so little magic left in your system that in comparison to your normal levels, you feel empty. You try to conjure a spark around your fingertips and are hit with what almost feels like a muscle spasm in return.

Evidently, you have overworked your power like you have overworked your body. You will not be casting anything big for quite a while.

Then again, you also will not be moving quickly, in any sense of the word, for a while either, so in this light it all makes sense.

You sip at your tea and sigh, ignoring the protest your lungs give you. You are, simply put, a mess. You are not inclined to put yourself through a situation like that ever again.

But if it came down to it, you would do it again in a heartbeat. Earth and all its people would be dead if you had not and you will never regret your decision.

You just wish the aftermath was slightly less painful.

Soft footsteps announce Wong's arrival just before his actual presence does, and he joins you at the table with his usual blank face. He is moving a bit gingerly, and he rubs at the spot where he had been impaled on the metal pole.

 _Your death bugging you too?_ You ask in surprise. You did not think he would remember. After all, you rewound it like it never happened.

Wong give you an odd glance before his blank face dissolves into his mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression and he is suddenly right in front of you.

 _Too?_ He repeats in a dangerously level voice.

You attempt to hide behind your cup of tea by taking a large sip and averting your gaze, but Wong has the distinction of being more stubborn than you, the man who outlasted Dormammu. You really have no choice but to explain, delicately, exactly what happened between the time you flew up and came back down. When you finish, Wong glowers at you.

 _Foolish_ , he grunts, and drinks from his own cup of tea, which he brewed while you were talking. He informs you that you could have gotten yourself killed for real very easily, and you barely hold back a snort. As if you do not know that already.

Wong looks at you over the brim of his mug, and his gaze softens slightly. _I know a recipe to help with nightmares_ , he offers.

You thank him, possibly more energetically than you should considering how much your vocal chords protest against their use. You both sip your tea in comfortable silence afterwards.

Tomorrow, you decide, you will look into cleaning and healing spells. The first for the Sanctum, which is quite frankly a disaster zone from Kaecilius' attack, and the latter for yourself. There is a day-old stitched-up stab wound in your chest and your face is covered in various cuts and gashes, not to mention a few bruises from getting knocked around by Dormammu.

It will take a while, but you think you should be able to adjust to your new life eventually. Even though the Ancient One for some reason saw fit to make you the Master of the New York Sanctum – her reasoning is still beyond you. Still, this means that you are responsible for this building and everything in it. For now, though, you are content to simply be responsible for the kitchen.

* * *

The first thing you do upon opening the book of healing spells is flip to the back to read the warnings. You are in no mood to deal with another Dark Dimension incident, thank you very much.

However, it seems you are in luck. There is apparently little that can go wrong with a healing spell, aside from the slight possibility of making your inner organs become your outer organs if you make such-and-such motion wrong. Your hands have already trained you to be as careful with your motions as possible lest you mess them up, so you are quite safe as far as gesturing goes.

The main other warning more-or-less states that, unless the caster has an extensive knowledge of the damage they are trying to repair and what the repaired area ought to look like and how it should function, these spells should not be used. You practically smirk. For once, your encyclopaedic knowledge of the medical human body will be useful for something other than diagnosing life-threatening injuries on yourself and your teacher.

You turn the pages back to the actual spells and carefully follow the directions to cast an incantation towards your stab wound - but the world lurches when you reach for your magic and you just barely keep yourself from collapsing to the ground. There is a sharp stabbing ache where your power core is and the severity makes you gasp. Reflex cuts off any spell you are trying to cast and almost immediately, the stabbing ache recedes into a dull throb. You take greedy gulps of air as you recover, and when you try to push yourself back into a standing position, Wong's hand is suddenly helping you up. You blink up to see him glaring at you in the manner that lets you know you have done something stupid, and your Cloak floating behind him with anxiously fluttering corners.

 _Idiot_ , Wong informs you, and scoops up the medical spellbook once you are firmly on your feet. _You are in no condition to be spellcasting._

That would have been nice to know before you nearly collapsed, you retort. Wong gives you another glare. It should have been obvious, he says, and plants a finger on your collarbone. You ran your power dry. One does not just recover from that kind of exertion in a few hours. Try a few weeks, he tells you.

You blink. You open your mouth, take a deep breath in preparation to protest - but then your stitches abruptly object to the motion and your lungs aren't all that into it either, and you end up doubling over to catch your breath instead. Wong's disapproving glare softens ever so slightly. He glances down at the book in his hands and sighs.

 _And of course you would pick up the expert level text,_ he scolds, before opening the tome and flipping through the pages.

You dryly remind him of your PhD, MD, and neurosurgeon knowledge. Wong, in turn and somehow even drier, reminds you that the brain and a stab wound with stitches are two very different things. You know that, you argue. Just because you specialized in neurosurgery does not mean you don't know about the rest of the body.

Wong just rolls his eyes and begins casting. To his credit, he makes sure you can watch and even explains the process to you, since you cannot do it yourself. Your wounds itch as they heal, and you resist the urge to scratch at your now-useless stitches before Wong takes them out with a flick of his fingers.

You give your former wound a quick examination. You do not even have a scar.

You immediately demand lessons.

 _Not until you've recovered,_ Wong says, and firmly puts away the book. You have used up too much power too fast, he says, and you will not be doing  anything strenuous for a while.

Sorcerers as a general rule, he tells, try to never use the entirety of their magic because it takes so very long to recover. Magic is one of those things that can regenerate in a flash when it has a pattern to follow, but working from scratch takes nearly three times as long. Your own magic apparently has to rebuild itself from scratch, as you left literally nothing for it to base itself after. You have actually burnt out your core, Wong says, and shakes his head in mingled astonishment and disapproval.

You ask him to elaborate.

 _Dangerous_ , he replies _,_ and gives you a foul-smelling herbal concoction to brew as tea, which he instructs you to drink every night until he says otherwise. Try as you might, you cannot get an more sufficient explanation out of him and you eventually give in and just brew the tea.

It tastes as foul as it smells. Much to your horror, honey does not help in the slightest.

Against your will, you continue to drink the stuff over the next few days, during which you finally put the Eye of Agamotto back on its display in Kamar-Taj and tackle the mess that is the room of relics in your own Sanctum. Wong has forbidden you from casting spells until he deems you fit to stop drinking the tea, but you have never listened to him anyway and go rifling through the spell books for something to help you fix glass.

Wong, of course, accosts you within ten minutes, but after listening to your reasoning and a careful examination of the spell you will be casting, he allows you to continue – with the added presence of himself, watching your every move.

You do not mind, not really. It is nice to have the company. Usually the occupants of the New York Sanctum consist of you and your Cloak, and while you are fond of your relic it is not a very good conversationalist. So you only gripe the minimum amount at Wong's hawk-like observation and focus on fixing the display cases instead.

Glass, you decide afterwards, is the most temperamental and difficult substance you have ever had the displeasure of working with.

The relics, on the other hand, are quite pleasant to get along with. You are slowly learning that a friendly relic feels different than a neutral relic, which in turn feels different than a taken relic. Your own relic gives you a friendly thrum when you touch it – it resonates with you, with your magic. If your magic was anywhere close to its usual level, you speculate that your whole being would react.

In comparison, most of the relics you pick up to place back in their displays give you a gentle vibration. Not hostile by any means, but nowhere near the level of your Cloak. They like you, you eventually decide, but they do not choose you. These relics are all waiting for someone else, but that does not mean they will not respond to someone they already accept. It is rather like a greeting between new friends, you decide.

There are also a few relics that simply do nothing. These are the neutral ones, which either do not care or have recently lost their old wielder and have no interest in being social. One of these neutral relics you recognize as belonging to the previous Master of this Sanctum, the man you watched Kaecilius kill in the lobby that day. You try not to handle this relic for any longer than necessary, giving it time to grieve, only overstepping yourself once to transmit a shared regret for the loss of its Master.

You receive a single vibration in return; it is thankful for your consolation, but wishes to be alone. At least, that is what you think you interpret. But you cannot mistake its neutrality, so you leave it be.

You do not have a hostile relic in your Sanctum, but you can guess how one would react to you. You decide to try and actively avoid handling a hostile relic, as you doubt it would end well for you.

Your one experience with a taken relic comes from Wong's Wand of Watoomb, which according to Wong wanted to thank you for saving the life of its wielder. Holding it is an undoubtedly strange experience; it feels, oddly enough, like Wong. Well, Wong's presence. It thanks you with a quick thrum, then falls silent in your hands. It feels wrong, somehow, holding it, like it resonates on a different frequency than you do, and you are happy to hand it back to Wong.

Your own relic drapes itself across your back and you instantly relax slightly, straightening your shoulders in a nonverbal _hello_. The Cloak has saved your life enough that you feel safer wearing it than not. Oddly enough, the Cloak seems to feel the same way; ever since you bargained with Dormammu, it has been particularly clingy. You suspect that it disliked watching you die so many times and is now extra determined to protect you as a result.

And who are you to complain about that?

Later, you try to use the glass-repair spell on the dimensional windows on the foyer's upper level, but Wong promptly throws an apple at your head when he finds out and takes over the project himself. He then hands you a broom and has you sweep the hallway, without magic, while he takes care of the actual spell casting required to fix the windows.

You have only been on a magic ban for four days and you are already sick and tired of it. Not to mention that tea, which is still one of the foulest things you have ever had the misfortune to put in your mouth. But you can feel your core slowly filling back up as the days go by. This is, in all honesty, the only thing keeping you from throwing that tea out one of the newly-repaired dimensional windows.

But all in all, you and the world of sorcerers in general are slowly picking up the pieces of what Kaecilius broke. Granted, the London Sanctum is a complete wreck, your own Sanctum is populated solely by yourself and Wong at this point, and Hong Kong so closely came to ruin that half the initiates fled anyways – not to mention the massive hole that the death of the Sorcerer Supreme has left in your ranks. But you have already heard rumors of a replacement being searched for and trained, and as for the Sanctums... well, New York is looking better already, isn't it?

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you have begun to heal.

* * *

 **This is where I branch from canon, mainly because I don't have any more canon to follow. Well, except for that after-credits scene with Thor… ooh. Idea. Okay, so I'll** _ **partially**_ **branch from canon because I've only got guidelines from here.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **ThatLazyPerson for Favoriting/Following!**

* * *

 **Stardust: Well, he did die an undetermined amount of times. If that's not intense, I don't know what is.**


	15. Chapter 15

Your name is Stephen Strange and your Cloak is being a nuisance.

Now that you are actually able to spend time with your relic and get to know it better, you have come to the conclusion that the Cloak enjoys driving you up a wall. At the very least, it likes to dash about the Sanctum like a thing possessed and hide in the most absurd places before leaping out and repeating the process.

It acts rather like a cat, you observe, and frown as the Cloak squeezes itself into a corner between the ceiling and an upper kitchen cabinet. You have never particularly gotten along with cats.

You quickly learn that this behavior is the least of the Cloak's quirks. For starters, it seems nearly addicted to heat. In retrospect to where it sits on you, this makes sense. The neck is one of the warmest places on the human body and the Cloak is made to curl around this hotspot, so naturally being warm would have to be a comfortable sensation. But it also seems to adore snow, and windy days, and thunderstorms and basically any pattern of weather that might possibly be associated with cold in some way. You learned this while cleaning (non-magically, thank you Wong) the dimensional windows on the second floor when a broken latch resulted in you falling straight through into the Himalayas.

Your Cloak had promptly leaped off your shoulders and made a snow angel before you snagged it and climbed back through to the Sanctum. Then while you had cleaned the other windows, the Cloak played with the dials until a Midwest thunderstorm and a kite festival showed up. You are still fairly certain that you scarred those festival goers for life when you dragged your Cloak back through the window and changed the location before anything else could go wrong.

So yes, the Cloak likes mischief. It also likes imitating kites, playing in rain puddles regardless of whether or not it has actually stopped raining yet, and treating snow like a swimmable substance. You suspect that if you ever introduce your relic to the ocean you will be hard-pressed to ever get it home again.

You also suspect that half the reason the Cloak likes to play in cold places is because of how you warm it up afterwards. Both you and the Cloak, you have discovered, are very fond of evenings spent by a fireplace. And due to the Cloak's addiction to body heat, it also likes to cuddle. You have never been much of a person for cuddling, but it is very hard to say no to an expressive piece of fabric – especially when that piece of fabric has an extremely convincing boa constrictor impression.

Also, these evenings have grown on you. But you will never tell anyone that. Wong would never stop laughing.

* * *

Two weeks pass before Wong finally lets you stop drinking the disgusting tea, and you would gladly pitch the entire stash if Wong did not confiscate it before you got the chance. You settle for vigorously washing your cup instead and celebrate by sequestering yourself in the Sanctum's library. You have been delighted to discover that, unlike the Kamar-Taj library, you have read almost none of these books before and you welcome the new material like a desert caravan welcomes water.

Wong still will not let you try new spells you find, though. He apparently will not let you do anything of the sort until he confirms that your magic has sufficiently recovered itself.

Personally, you think you are fine. The empty cold feeling in your core vanished a few days ago and you perform what spells Wong will let you do without any problems.

Wong thinks otherwise, but at your insistence (relentless complaining) he agrees to give you a test to see how much you have actually recovered.

 _You_ , he says gruffly, _will levitate this sphere until it becomes a strain._ He hands you a glass ball the size of an orange and you take it dubiously. You wonder if your definition of 'strain' matches the normal definition anymore and if this will even work, but Wong fixes you with his mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression and you swallow your words awkwardly.

You levitate the sphere.

 _Find me when you drop it_ , Wong instructs, and leaves the room without another word. You glance at the sphere, at the spell holding it up, and your hand holding the spell and raise an eyebrow questioningly. You fail to see how an exercise like this could ever produce enough strain to make someone drop it.

This will take a while, you decide, and promptly sit down with a book to pass the time.

* * *

You do not know what time Wong comes back, because the only watch you wear is broken, but you do know that you got up once to turn on the lights. You still have not figured out how holding up this sphere is meant to be tiring. You have your hand lying palm-up outstretched on the table, spell above your hand and sphere floating above the spell, and the only reason you have felt discomfort was due to your hand falling asleep from bad positioning.

Wong, for the first time since you have met him, looks completely flabbergasted.

 _You have not dropped it?_ He asks, and examines the spell between the sphere and your hand. _And you do not feel any strain?_

You ponder this for a minute. You have a feeling that your definition of 'strain' has been horribly skewed by your experience in the Dark Dimension, but even taking that into account you do not feel anything about your power capacity that could be described as such. You shake your head in the negative.

Wong grunts, and pulls out a larger sphere from somewhere which he swaps with the one floating above your palm. You raise an eyebrow at him as the new sphere levitates in the grip of your magic.

 _And that was supposed to accomplish... what, exactly?_

Wong grunts at you. Part of the test, he tells you, and sets a plate in front of you, then sits down in the chair opposite yours and slides you a fork. You take a minute to transfer your spell and the sphere to your non-dominant hand so that you can eat, and Wong watches this wordlessly.

The rest of your meal happens in silence, and Wong watches you the entire time. It is considerably awkward.

* * *

Wong has you hold up the sphere until you go to bed, and is there when you wake up the next morning with an even larger sphere. By this point you are beginning to be confused, but Wong is having approximately none of it and simply holds the sphere – which is now the size of your head – out to you until you take it from him.

 _Hold it until you drop it_ , Wong orders, and then leaves as he has better things to do than watch you do a simple exercise. You float the sphere above your hand and purse your mouth at it. This is going to make your day substantially more irritating.

So, you spend the next hour in the library looking up a spell that you can run without constantly using your hands. It works, much to your pleasure, and you tether the sphere a few feet to your relative left so that you can go about your business. You have to clean your relic today – the Cloak has discovered the delights of leaf piles – and once that is done you have been meaning to reorganize the library to your own personal preference.

* * *

Unfortunately, alphabetizing the books by title is going to have to wait, because the Cloak has taken your intent to bathe it as a challenge, hide-and-seek, and a game of tag all in one and you have been chasing it down for the past two hours. The sphere floats a few feet to your left consistently the entire time, bobbing and weaving around various obstacles and corners as you chase your relic through the Sanctum. At one point, you catch sight of Wong's face as you hurry past in pursuit of your regrettably-much-faster opponent and you cannot decide if he is amused or irritated – he has to duck under the sphere keeping pace with you. You suspect he is more likely irritated.

 _I'll make the water warm,_ you call to the Cloak, and it ripples at you playfully. _And I can add bubbles!_

This catches your relic's attention, and it floats down to your eye level with a curious tilting of its collar. You blink in surprise. Of all the things you expected to get the Cloak's attention, a bubble bath is not one of them.

Forty minutes later, bubble baths have been permanently added to the list of things your Cloak is obsessed with, right along with body heat and windstorms. You have also discovered that the Cloak dislikes blowdryers.

It is a little odd to light a fire so early in the day, but the Cloak likes it and seems happy to float above the flames to air-dry itself. You sit down in a nearby armchair and simply watch for a moment.

Who knew that chasing down a sentient piece of fabric could be so tiring? Much less that it could take up your entire morning and some of your afternoon as well.

At the very least, you decide, you have time to organize the library now.

You stand up and narrowly miss knocking your head on the sphere, which is still being floated by your magic and you flinch in surprise. In all honesty you had entirely forgotten it was even there. You level a glare at it in annoyance. You are still unsure about the point of levitating it around everywhere you go, but you are more afraid of Wong than you are annoyed at the sphere.

So despite how much you want to just abandon the thing, you take it with you anyways as you go about reorganizing the library. Your magic holds it a few feet to your relative left as it has since this morning, and you do your best to ignore it.

Wong finds you and the sphere a few hours later, right as you finish organizing the new 'O' section and are about to move onto the 'P's. He blinks at the levitating orb at your shoulder.

 _How long have you been doing that?_ He asks.

You frown, and count back in your head, then realize you never noticed what time you woke up. You settle for the general timeframe of 'since this morning'.

Wong presses his lips together and plucks the sphere from your spell matrix, then examines said matrix closely. You maintain the magic for a few seconds longer before you let it fade.

 _Are you going to tell me what all this is in aid of yet?_ You ask testily.

Wong evaluates you in silence. You shift uncomfortably.

 _...Show me your shields,_ he orders abruptly, and you pause, confused. You were under the impression that the shield spell was firmly under the list of 'Spells Stephen Is Not Allowed To Cast Until Wong Says Otherwise'.

But Wong has just said otherwise, your logical side informs you, and you mentally smack yourself before sparking your shields beneath your hands. They blaze into being like fireworks, completely steady and beautifully intricate. You have always liked the complex matrix of the shields, even though it is that same complexity that makes them so hard for sorcerers to master. For this reason, yours have always been rather small, no more than a foot across; it was all you could support.

But now, the shields you are casting are three times that size and they crackle and burn like lightning. You remember, vaguely, that you conjured similar shields in the Dark Dimension when you bargained with Dormammu, but that discovery had been somewhat lost between deaths.

You blink down at your spell, then up at Wong, and as you meet his gaze you suddenly realize where Wong is going with this.

You have been supporting a spell, continuously, for hours, carrying an object which is made of solid glass and slightly larger than your head. You have also just cast shields, which has a very high-magic cost in and of itself, and you are currently sustaining two impressively large specimens without any sign of fatigue or even strain.

Now that you think about it, you realize, eyes growing wide, you do not feel particularly depleted at all.

 _Wong_ , you say evenly, _is this normal?_

The look on Wong's face tells you everything you need to know.

Your name is Stephen Strange and you should not have this much magic.

* * *

 **Because if magic functions like everything else in the human body, there has to be a limit. In my opinion, Stephen broke the limit and shattered it into a million tiny pieces. And there are consequences for that - but we'll get into those later.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to Yue in the Stars for Favoriting/Following!**

* * *

 **Stardust: Oh, I plan to. I've still got ideas for this thing, I'm not done yet.**


	16. Chapter 16

Your name is Stephen Strange and you have just decided that you do not like being on the other end of a doctor's visit.

Granted, your doctor is Wong, but there is something about being stared at and prodded with an unfamiliar device that just makes you uncomfortable. You think back to all the patients you ever did this to and apologize profusely inside your head. You were always told your bedside manner was your worst quality, and you have a sneaking suspicion that Wong of all people is currently doing a better job of that than you ever did.

As if he knows your thoughts, Wong chooses that moment to retract the instrument he has been taking readings with for the past few minutes and _harrumphs_ at the results, eyebrows raised in surprise.

The first thing he relays to you is that, technically, nothing is wrong with you. You are perfectly healthy both physically and spiritually and everything, even your magic, is working as it ought to. You are, of course, relieved to hear this, but you can already tell that Wong has more to say.

Your power core, he tells you, shaking his head in confusion, appears to be effectively limitless.

Your jaw drops.

 _Running the Eye of Agamotto for one simple time fix is power-intensive enough_ , Wong says, explaining. Running it for a long period of time, such as maintaining and feeding a reversal spell takes a massive amount of energy. When you rewound the attack on the Hong Kong Sanctum, you were already pushing your magic and your body's ability to channel it to the limit. You nod, agreeing with this and remembering how hungry the Eye seemed during that spell.

But then, Wong continues, you went into the Dark Dimension and used the Eye again to create a time loop. This in itself, he says, is just as intensive as the reversal spell you had already cast and essentially cleaned you out entirely. Any magic that your body would naturally regenerate would go straight to the Eye to keep powering the loop, and this is where the first anomaly in your present magic comes in.

It appears that you now regenerate your power at a rate approximately equal to however much you are using, making it effectively impossible for you to run out. Wong has no doubt that your body has a limit to how fast it can reproduce your power, but evidently you have not found it yet. He suspects that you have attuned yourself to the rate that the Eye consumes power, as your body's adaption to keep up with the demand.

 _But that should be impossible,_ you argue. _People can't_ _adapt_ _that fast._

Wong gives you a look that is so incredibly dry that you can feel yourself withering beneath it.

 _Yes,_ he says in a tone that matches his expression, _but most people don't power a time loop for over a thousand iterations while also throwing around protective spells to try not to be inevitably killed time after time after time after time._

You close your mouth, weakly. Wong surveys your expression and, satisfied that you will now listen, continues his explanation.

What you did, he says, put incredible strain on your power core and your body in general. Keeping up with the Eye's demand to power your loop trained your magic to regenerate according to its feeding rate, but then you used spells on top of that when your magic was already completely depleted and completely devoted to powering something else.

 _But,_ you say, interrupting again and receiving a glare for your troubles, _that doesn't make sense. How could I cast another spell if everything I had was already in use?_ You know what you did, you were there when you did it. But the way Wong describes it sounds like what you did was... impossible.

Not impossible, Wong replies. Just unheard-of and so very unlikely that is is essentially considered impossible. In blunt terms, you used excess power that you did not actually have and in doing so forcibly deepened your energy reserves. Think of it, he says, like how if someone eats more food than they have room for, their stomach will expand to accommodate (although it will be painful) and will stay expanded to hold more in the future unless the amount of food diminishes again. The same concept applies to your core. You used more magic than you had, and so your core expanded to accommodate for it.

You blink, and suddenly remember all the times you used a shield spell in the Dark Dimension, simply by instinct triggered by seeing something deadly coming at your face. You furrow your brow; you have a feeling that you may have forcibly expanded your power core a bit more than Wong suspects.

 _I do not know how much magic your core holds now_ , Wong says, getting up and putting away his device. _But it is in balance and does not appear to be a threat to your physical wellbeing._ An imbalanced core, apparently, will eventually make its sorcerer explode.

You wince. Then something occurs to you. If your rate of magic regeneration now is so high, why did it take so long to recover and why did you have to drink that tea?

Wong gives you a Look that manages to inform you of your supreme stupidity without a single word being said. Were you not listening to him just now, he asks pointedly. You used magic that you did not actually have. You took yourself past being out of magic and for all intents and purposes went into debt. On top of that, you now had a power reservoir so vast that even your newly sped-up regeneration rate apparently could not fill it in a timely manner.

Wong gives you a very stern look and says, _I hope you are understanding all of this, Strange._

You understand. You understand more than you want to, actually. You are essentially a magical stamina freak and you nearly died in the process of accidentally getting yourself there. You can hear what Wong is actually saying loud and clear: If you ever do this to yourself again I will kill you myself for your stupidity, Strange.

You nod and try not to show how intimidated you actually are.

* * *

Both you and Wong want to find out what your limit is, now, but it is proving harder to pin down than either of you expected. Part of it is simply because, as the Sanctum's new Master, you are responsible for taking care of the building and everything in it. This includes, curiously enough, arguing relics, which you honestly did not know could be a thing. You spend the morning mediating between a sword with an eternally sharp point and a fan that summons hurricane-level blasts when opened, though what exactly you are mediating you haven't the slightest idea. You are simply holding one in each hand and reminding them to keep it civil when their vibrations and thrumming come too close to hostile for your liking.

You are still not entirely sure what the resolution was, or even what the conflict had been in the first place, but the mediation ends with the fan vibrating in a satisfied manner and the sword giving a subdued, apologetic thrum before falling silent. You put both relics back in their individual cases feeling mildly confused, but you are at least confident that the crisis is over.

The other reason which makes finding your limit difficult is that you have flown through every test Wong has given you and he is running out of ideas. The only test you have failed was the one that required you to levitate all the books in the library, individually, at once – and the reason you failed that one wasn't because of a power issue. It was because you didn't have enough concentration to keep track of all the five-hundred-something objects you were levitating and lost count somewhere, which distracted you, which made the whole floating collection drop like rocks.

The books were surprisingly dense.

But now that you have solved the issue between relics, Wong has another test for you. He has borrowed (temporarily taken) the Eye of Agamotto from its perch in Kamar-Taj and you are already apprehensive about what he wants you to do.

Put this on, he tells you, and hands you the Eye. Activate it and keep it running. He will tell you what to do from there.

You can already list at least five reasons why this is a bad idea, the first and foremost being that you have a bad habit of breaking the laws of nature when you wear this particular relic and the second being that your Cloak is going to demand an apology from you later for wielding around without it. The other three are somewhat less concerning but important nonetheless, and you open your mouth with the intent of telling Wong this. He meets your words with a dead face.

 _...Okay then_ , you mutter, and quickly run through the necessary hand motions and feed your power into the Eye. With a metallic sliding noise and a green flash, the relic around your neck activates and promptly consumes your magic – but it barely feels like it has made a dent.

On the bright side you can feel the deficit, which is farther than you have ever gotten before, but the missing portion is so slight in comparison to what you still have that is almost seems nonexistent. You inform Wong of this, who brightens in his version of optimism.

At least it's progress, he says.

He gets into a fighting stance. All your self-preservation instincts immediately go into lockdown.

You demand to know what he is doing.

 _Next part of the test_ , he says, and a cord-of-threads forms between his fingers and he strikes. A yell breaks from your mouth and your arms shoot up, shields automatically flaring into existence and Wong's attack sparks off your defenses with a sound like abused metal. You glare at him from beneath your spells, then detach your left shield from your hand and throw it at him in the same manner you throw a discus. You try to aim for something none-fatal; you are mildly ticked at the moment, yes, but Wong is your friend and you would really rather not kill him.

Wong, however, is skilled enough to dodge anyways. But he does not launch another attack; instead, he shifts out of his stance and asks you about your magic level.

You blink, then concentrate. To your surprise, you can feel a difference in your available power. It is less than it used to be; not much, but enough to be noticeable this time. And it is not filling back in. Instead, you can feel a steady stream being continually used by the Eye to keep itself active and it exactly matches the rate at which you regenerate because your magic is holding steady at its current amount despite this continuous pull.

Well actually, if you focus deeply, you can find a portion diverting to keep your shields manifested, but in comparison to what the Eye requires it hardly registers. Of course, this is the base power requirement; were your shields currently in use, they would be drawing much more energy. Shields in general require fuel equivalent to the force of what they are blocking, so the amount of power needed to sustain them depends on what they are being used for. Wong must have put a lot of effort into his strike, you decide.

Speaking of Wong, he has been watching you evaluate this and is waiting for your response. He nods in satisfaction when you tell him what you've found and writes everything down in a notebook.

 _I know it is relative_ , he says, _but I want to have at least a rough idea of your capabilities now. If you do not mind._

You don't mind at all. You're curious yourself.

Your Cloak flies in and approaches you, then pauses as it notices the Eye hanging around your neck. It curls its collar at you in a way that you automatically recognize as ticked off, and you wince as your relic comes closer and leans in to hover over the Eye in a surprisingly threatening manner, for a piece of cloth.

The Eye flashes, suddenly, startling both you and the Cloak, which darts backwards a few inches and flicks its corners irately before zooming back in and thrumming in response. The Eye flickers; your Cloak dips and twists; and then suddenly your relic is attaching itself to your shoulders like nothing is wrong. A lower corner even slips up and polishes the Eye, which has you gaping. Weren't they just having a spat?

Wong, on the other hand, seems amused.

 _They've agreed to share you,_ he says when you throw him a questioning glance, and you raise an eyebrow. Share you, you repeat. Your only relic is the Cloak. You picked up the Eye on a whim and a badly planned experiment and you nearly broke time with it, not to mention the looping fiasco.

Wong just shrugs. A relic's reasons for choosing a wielder are its own, he says.

The implications smack you in the face and you take an astonished step back. The Eye has chosen you? Of all people it picks the man who clearly has no idea what he's doing anymore?

The Eye slides shut all on its own, cutting off the flow of power that you are still subconsciously feeding it, and the green stone shines at you before the metal closes over it entirely. Great, you think. Clearly it just told you something and you completely missed it. You ask your Cloak what the Eye said, because you have been around it longer and thus understand it better, and the Cloak ripples its fabric against your back with a contemplative thrum. The general gist, you discern, is amusement and an interest for the future you are tangled up in. The comment confuses you until you remember that the Eye is a time device, so of course it could see where you are going.

Perhaps that is why it has apparently chosen you, you think. Something in your future must make you worthwhile in the Eye's opinion.

You just hope you can figure out what that might be.

* * *

Your relics have decided to gang up on you, you discover. They are singularly unwilling to let you go anywhere without you wearing one or both of them at any given point in time. While the Cloak is more effective at tracking you down and attaching itself to you – between the two of them, it is the one that can move, after all – the Eye is the more persistent, flashing relentlessly at you until you pick it up and put it on.

The Eye itself is a puzzle to you. It seems to be perfectly capable of supporting its own consciousness, and it regularly opens itself on its own power to glow or twinkle or otherwise convey something that you then have to ask your Cloak to relay, because figuring out what different light flashes mean are a whole lot harder than reading body (fabric) language. Yet you know that previously, you had to provide power for the Eye to open.

You guess that the rules between relic and chosen wielder are rather different than the rules between relic and random idiot who picked it up, and neither of your partners make any move to correct you. You are fully aware that using the Eye's ability will require your magic, though, just like flying with the Cloak does. The only difference is that the Eye is a lot more power-intensive.

Maybe that was part of its reasoning, you think. You are now one of the few people who can actually support the Eye and everything it can do with little to no trouble whatsoever. That would narrow down the pool of possible candidates quite a bit, you realize.

But it also seems to like you, something which you are still confused about, so there clearly must be something else at play. In fact, both of your relics like you and for the life of you, you cannot figure out why.

You try to ask them, one night as you go to bed, and the answer you receive is odd.

The Eye, sitting on your bedside table, flashes at you and slits the metal 'eyelids' around its green stone in what you have slowly learned to recognize as laughter, while the Cloak ruffles its folds amusedly and curls around your torso like a cat.

 _That is not a sensible answer,_ you say, but stroke the Cloak anyways. It is a complete sucker for a good rub.

Your two relics do their equivalent of exchanging glances, then the Cloak unwinds itself from you and begins a complicated game of charades. From the thrumming, twisting, and continued jabs towards the Eye and a shivering waver that you take to mean 'mystic mumbo jumbo stuff' you eventually piece together a general meaning that essentially tells you that your relics liked your potential.

Everyone likes you for your potential, you snort, but smile in spite of yourself. Your mind flashes back to a hospital balcony amidst a frozen thunderstorm, and the last conversation you ever held with your teacher. She saw your possibilities too, you remember.

And she had liked what you could be.

The Eye twinkles on the table and you abruptly remember that both relics were there when you bargained with Dormammu. They alone know exactly what you went through because they were there. For the Cloak, it had already chosen you. All that incident would have done was reaffirm its choice. But for the Eye... you have a feeling that your actions there are a large part of why it decided to choose you in the end.

The true test of someone's character is what they do when no one is watching, after all.

Your name is Stephen Strange and you are proud to be your relics' wielder.

* * *

 **Yes, I'm late. Sorry. Life happened.**

 **Anyways, the chapter. Stuff happened. For anyone who's ever read the Doctor Strange comics, you'll know that magic has its consequences. Namely involving food. I will be getting into that eventually.**

 **However, my reasons for making Stephen a magical powerhouse are this: At some point, the dude's gonna end up being Sorcerer Supreme. He needs a reservoir to match that job, in my opinion. Defending the planet has GOT to be draining.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **Tamiriel and a. cho** **101 for Favoriting/Following!**

* * *

 **Guest: Same here! I will take every excuse with the Cloak I can get, don't you worry about that.**

 **Stardust: It's hard not to like the Cloak.**


	17. Chapter 17

Your name is Stephen Strange and you cannot cook to save your life.

Wong is gone today, at some meeting you do not care about, and you are attempting to make yourself lunch. It is not working.

The Cloak is having the time of its stitched life, poking at the pitiful excuse for dough that sits in a pile of far too much flour on the countertop and blowing said flour around in patterns of circular swirls. The Eye meanwhile, sits on your chest with the faintest gleam of green peeking out between metal strips and you get the distinct feeling that it is holding back laughter.

It laughs at you a lot, you have noticed.

You attempt to salvage what is left of your dough and fail miserably, then sigh and dump the whole mess in the trash along with your three other previous failures. Then you lean over the cookbook yet again and try to figure out where you went wrong.

This, you think, is why Wong is in charge of meals.

Eventually you discover that you had mixed up the amount of flour with the amount of baking soda, which probably means that the pile of 'flour' your dough was sitting in was not actually 'flour'. It also means that you are now out of baking soda and you rub at your eyes in annoyance. Then you look down at the Eye and ask, Care to help out?

When the Eye does not object, you use it to rewind the baking soda until the container is full again. You have discovered that the Eye has an innate sense of which actions will cause a temporal collapse and which ones will not, so you have developed a habit of asking your relic before using it. If your idea is stupid and will likely create a hole in the space-time continuum, the Eye simply will not work. It is a somewhat crude setup, but it works far better than trying to puzzle through the absolutely impossible list of actions previously proven to have broken time that you found in the back of the Book of Cagliostro.

That reminds you – you still need to reorganize the actual contents of the books in your own library, because the warnings are all at the back again and you really do need to put them in front of the spells. It is ever so slightly annoying to flip to the back every time you try to learn something new.

That, though, can be put aside for later. Right now you are going to try and make dough, again, and hope that you will eventually achieve the meal you are attempting.

You make sure to keep the flour and baking soda firmly separate this time.

* * *

Your finished product looks nothing like the picture in the cookbook nor particularly appetizing, but it tastes fine despite the lumps and at this point you are just grateful to have been able to make anything at all. You eat with a fork in one hand and a book in the other, chewing absentmindedly when you remember to and making mental notes about how you want to restructure the contents of the pages in front of you.

Once you finish, you set your plate in the sink and move to the library. The Cloak trails behind you and eagerly swoops until you chuckle and light the fireplace for it. The Cloak twirls in delight and promptly parks itself on the hearth to absorb the heat.

You wonder if the Eye is addicted to warmth too, but when you offer the relic flashes at you in a disinterested sort of way and so you leave it around your neck where it usually is.

The process of changing the order of a book, you discover, is not nearly as tedious as you had thought. Part of this is due to the fact that most authors at least had the sense to make the warnings their own section, so that when you put them somewhere else there is not an awkward gap on pages where text used to be. The other part can be attributed to your new knowledge of healing spells (which you learned from Wong the minute he let you off your magic ban) and your discovery that, yes, it does in fact work on inanimate objects as well. Everything is made of matter, after all, and healing is just coaxing matter back into a complete blueprint. There is no reason why you cannot do the same to paper.

So you do. And it works. There is a fair amount of fine control involved, because paper is delicate and there are a lot of pages you have to keep track of, but you detach the warnings from the back, move the instructions to make room, and reattach the warnings in the front in less than a minute. You flip through the book to make sure it went smoothly, and nothing falls out. Everything looks to be in the proper place, in your mind. You set the book back on the shelf with a sense of accomplishment and move on to the next tome.

One down; five hundred-something to go.

* * *

You make the happy discovery that not everything in this library is a spell book, and so not everything needs to be rearranged. Of course, this only cuts down your total by about seventy-three, so you still have four hundred-something books to fix.

You are just finishing up book number two hundred fifty-six when Wong walks through the library doors and says, How long have you been in here?

It occurs to you that you have no idea. You settle for 'a while'.

Wong shakes his head in exasperation and hands you a sandwich, then lectures you extensively about the mess you left in the kitchen from your lunch experiment while you eat. You, he says, are going to have to learn to take care of yourself at some point. Wong will not stick around with you for the rest of your life. As a candidate, he tells you, you need to be able to feed yourself and clean up afterwards. It is an essential life skill. But, Wong continues, if you do not feel able to make your own meals then you will either move back into Kamar-Taj where meals are prepared by the staff, or he will find you a servant who can cook.

You frown, and swallow your mouthful. You would rather not be served like a Master, even though that is technically your title now – something which you ignore like the plague, you will never be comfortable with anything beyond Doctor – and the New York Sanctum has been growing on you. You would rather not leave it.

Besides, how hard can cooking actually be?

Wong raises an eyebrow, no doubt thinking of the disaster in the kitchen, but gives you no other response. You take another bite of sandwich and chew thoughtfully, then pause as something occurs to you.

Candidate, Wong called you. Candidate for what? You do not recall being a candidate for... anything, really.

For the position of Sorcerer Supreme, Wong says casually, and you immediately choke on your sandwich. The next few seconds are spent thumping your chest and gasping, and once you recover you gape at Wong.

He returns your flabbergasted gaze as though he has not just told you the most ridiculously Earth-shattering news of your life, and you cannot understand why he is so calm. Sorcerer Supreme? You? Who on Earth thought this was a good idea!?

Wong did, apparently, and he is not the only one. A large amount of senior sorcerers think you are a good fit for the job, for reasons unfathomable to you. You are not a competent choice for that kind of position, you insist.

Wong pulls up a chair, now, and proceeds to lay out the reasoning piece by piece. You went up against Kaecilius and lived, which automatically sets you apart from most of his other opponents. You harnessed the Eye of Agamotto, which is no small feat. You were chosen by the Cloak of Levitation, which is notorious for being fickle about its wielders. And you bargained with Dormammu – and came back.

You stiffen at this reason. You have not told anyone what you had done except Wong – which means he must have told these senior sorcerers. Wong rolls his eyes and cuts you off before you can get too angry. He has not told them anything about what you endured at Dormammu's hands, he says evenly. In fact, he did not say anything at all. It is common knowledge that you made a bargain, he tells you. But that is all they know.

You relax, slightly, and Wong continues explaining the reasoning to you. It has been inferred from your harnessing of the Eye that you have a substantial pool of magic at your disposal, though Wong assures you that nobody aside from him knows your current circumstances regarding that particular detail. Nor does anyone aside from him know that the Eye has chosen you, though he warns you that it will be obvious to other sorcerers when you meet them. This reminds you of something.

What did you say about the Eye not being in Kamar-Taj anymore?

Wong tilts his head and tells you that he simply informed the initiates that the Eye had decided to reside elsewhere for the time being. You are mildly surprised at the lack of hassle; but apparently, if a relic decides that it wants a change of scenery, it is given a change of scenery. They do not need to be wielded to use their abilities, and nobody wants the Eye of Agamotto ticked enough to use time against them.

Besides, Wong says, it is technically true. He just did not say that the 'elsewhere' the Eye had decided on was actually around your neck.

He goes back to explaining the logic behind your candidacy. Your relationship with the previous Sorcerer Supreme – the Ancient One – gives you good recommendation and also character reference; she was an excellent judge of that, apparently. And apparently she talked about you, quite a bit. About your potential, about your progress, her pride in your progression and her worry that you might stray down the wrong path. Her joy when you did not.

You swallow against the sudden lump in your throat.

Lastly, Wong says dryly, you did save the world. The sorcerer community is not blind, and when Dormammu retreated moments after a recent initiate from Kamar-Taj made a bargain it was not hard for them to put the pieces together.

You take a deep, shaky breath. You do not know if you want to be Sorcerer Supreme. A large part of you is rather convinced that it is a terrible idea.

It is not set in stone, you know, Wong tells you. You are a candidate. One of three others.

Relief hits you in a wave and you abruptly remember that you are holding a sandwich. You take a large bite, suddenly starving. It does not have to be you. They might choose someone else. Thank the Vishanti, you think, chewing vigorously.

Then Wong tells you that the first set of eliminations are in two days and you promptly choke on your mouthful again.

* * *

You do not understand why you need to 'prepare'. You have every intention of failing on purpose and coming right back home to your Sanctum, where you have books to finish re-organizing and cooking to learn.

Wong, however, is having none of it and drags you off to the Mirror Dimension where he impresses upon you the need to not use more magic than you should physically have (in your case, this is a legitimate problem) and teaches you a dampener incantation so that you do not blow all the sensors of the sorcerer community into next week. He also teaches you a few new spells, mostly combat since you do not actually know many combat spells aside from the cord-of-threads and your shields.

During a break, you ask why he is telling you to hide how large your power core is. These are your fellow sorcerers. Shouldn't you try to not hide things from them, especially since you are (apparently) one of the best choices for their next Supreme?

Wong bestows you with yet another Look – you are beginning to accumulate quite the collection. You are the one who does not want to tell people what happened in the Dark Dimension, he reminds you. He is giving you a way to keep your privacy from the general public. Your examiners, on the other hand, are going to be made aware of your power capacity immediately during the course of the testing.

The dampener spell, he adds after a moment of thought, is just common courtesy.

* * *

Both your relics absolutely insist on coming with you when Wong accompanies (kidnaps) you to the first round of testing, and nothing you say or do can convince them otherwise. The Cloak alone nets you a lot of curious and impressed looks, but you can only imagine what they would do if they saw the Eye.

You can only be thankful that it agreed to hide under your tunic when you couldn't make it stay behind. You twitch at the memory and make a mental note: do not, under any circumstances, make the Eye of Agamotto angry. You are not sure how many times it looped you back into the room, but you had a killer case of deja vu afterwards.

Eventually you stand along with three other sorcerers in front of a committee, for lack of a better word, which Wong then leaves you to join. Your sudden inclusion in this candidacy makes far too much sense, and you narrow your eyes at Wong.

You nominated me, didn't you, you accuse.

Wong gives you his mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression and you curse him out inside your head. You will plot your revenge once you finish failing out of this testing.

As if cued by the thoughts in your head, the leading examiner begins the trial and you are given instructions to a spell you have never seen before and told to cast it. You flip through the steps and immediately skim to the back, looking for the warnings. There is nothing there.

You pause, and think that maybe this spell is actually sensible and put the warnings in the front. But there is nothing there either.

You glance at your fellow candidates. The young lady next to you is on step three, moving her hands and muttering under her breath as fiery lines of magic trace themselves in the air. On her other side, an elderly man has pulled out his reading glasses and is squinting at the pronunciation. And the middle-aged motherly woman on your other side is working her way slowly and steadily through the required hand gestures., though she has yet to channel any magic or say any of the words.

None of them seem worried that the warnings are missing.

You frown, then take a deep breath and move your hands into position-

The Eye under your tunic flares like a star, visible even through your clothing, and a small chunk of your magic vanishes as you suddenly find yourself flipping through the instructions, looking for the warnings again. You flinch in surprise and carefully look down at your relic, wondering why it found the need to rewind you by two minutes.

It flares at you through your clothes a second time, then slides shut. The metallic 'shing' almost sounds exasperated. Clearly, it thinks you have done something wrong, and you have a suspicion that it involves the lack of warnings.

Excuse me, you say, looking up at the table of examiners. Is there anything I should be aware of before I cast this? Side effects, possible explosions, a deal with a devil that you may or may not be making by casting a certain sign? Because literally everything, everything comes with a warning in a spell book and for this test to not have one sets off all sorts of red flags in your mind.

Granted, they were all primed by the Eye of Agamotto when it rewound you, but still. You are not foolish enough to ignore the relic that can see the future's outcomes.

Your fellow candidates look at you, the young woman and elderly man with surprise and embarrassment and the motherly woman with appraisal, and then Wong stands up at the table.

He is smiling. It looks unnatural on him, you think. Then he tosses you and your companions a scrolled piece of parchment and sits back down.

The parchment contains the warnings, and you read them quickly. Don't mispronounce this word or you will summon Mindless Ones, don't use too much power or you will rip a hole in the dimension, don't forget the final flick at the end or the backlash will turn you into a newt. Fairly standard, you note, remembering the warnings from the books you have been reorganizing, and return your attention to the spell.

Twist your hands like so. Build the spell matrix, then spin it. Add the controlling details. Don't put too much power in the main casting. Use your fingers for the manipulation – careful about your shaking. Don't forget the final flick...

You splay your hands and give the matrix one final push of power and the spell explodes to life in front of you, sparking and vibrating and throwing a glow on everything surrounding it. You give the instructions one last glance, then seize the spell in your fingers and twist it so that the two opposing ends touch.

The whole design shivers. Then it folds in on itself, collapses and rearranges and weaves into what looks almost like a wolf made entirely from the cords of your magic. You stare, flabbergasted.

Then the wolf, glowing and sparking exactly like your gateways do, moves. It raises its head and looks around, then locks eyes with you. There is nothing but dark void where its eyes would actually be, but you can tell it is looking at you all the same. It is not hostile, but not exactly friendly either. You get the feeling that it might just as soon bite you as nuzzle you, but it all depends on how stupid you may act.

Why this wolf cares about how you behave, you do not know. You are also not going to question it. Magic and magical things, you have discovered, often do stuff 'just because'.

The wolf nods at you. You nod back, partly out of courtesy and also because, it is a wolf. Of course you are going to acknowledge it, it might eat you otherwise. Then the creature's body breaks apart in a shower of fizzling sparks and you are left feeling slightly drained.

A grin breaks over your face. That was amazing. You are absolutely taking this spell with you, to heck with whether or not it's actually allowed. Even if they confiscate it, you have an eidetic memory. You've already got it in your head, so more fool on them.

Imagine if you could have set that creature on Kaecilius. You smile wider, imagining his reaction. That would have been priceless.

The other candidates around you are also dispelling their creatures, but they did not have wolves. The middle-aged woman is petting an affectionate, house cat-sized feline. The elderly man is catching his breath against an absolutely massive tortoise, and the young lady has a large predatory-looking bird perched on her arm.

They all look tired, though the elder definitely has everyone else beat in that regard. Belatedly, you realize that you should be acting more affected. The problem is that your rate of regeneration has already filled what you lost, though the fact that you lost anything tells you exactly how much power this 'summoning' spell takes. This alone gives you respect for your fellow candidates; everyone here is a magical powerhouse.

You carefully tuck both the spell and the warnings into your pocket as the table of examiners thanks the four of you for your time. Wong meets you at the exit and raises an eyebrow.

Saw something you liked? He asks pointedly.

You roll your eyes at him. He knows that you will be practicing this spell again whether you have the directions or not, so you might as well have the directions. It will make you less likely to break something.

* * *

Wong relays your results the next day; you have been passed into the next level of testing. You promptly lose your concentration on the spell you are casting and blow a large hole in the adjacent wall. While Wong turns red at the blatant abuse of the Sanctum, you curse creatively inside your head. You were hoping to fail.

Then again, you were never sure what the outcome of that test was supposed to have been, so perhaps the odds were somewhat against you.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and apparently failing out of this candidacy is going to be harder than you expected.

* * *

 **My theory on Stephen's cooking ability: the man was a stuck-up arrogant jerk who lived in a penthouse that could probably rival Tony Stark's pre-Avenger days. He totally had someone cater for him.**

 **Now he needs to learn to cook like the rest of us plebeians ;)**

 **Anyways, this is my take on how Stephen MIGHT become Sorcerer Supreme. Who knows whether or not this will actually happen.**

 **...Does that make this an AU?**

 **Changeling**


	18. Chapter 18

Your name is Stephen Strange and there is a distinct possibility that you are about to be eaten.

You have sequestered yourself in the Mirror Dimension and have just cast the final step of the spell that turned into a wolf. And now the wolf is staring at you, void eyes blatantly obvious in the fiery face, and you suddenly wonder if this was a bad idea.

Might be a bit late for that, you realize wryly as the wolf tilts its head at you, and you refocus on the creature. If you are going to be eaten, you at least want to see where it is coming from. You will have more time to brace that way.

The wolf, however, seems disinterested in eating you and instead sits down and blinks at you, once, deliberately.

You take a deep breath. In a spectacular display of a bad idea, you stretch out a shaking hand. The other candidates touched their spells, you remember. There is no technical reason why you cannot as well.

The Cloak tugs at you when your hand comes within a foot of the wolf, and you stop instantly. The Cloak has proven to be an excellent judge of when something is a bad idea, so much so that the Eye will only 'speak up' when the action the Cloak recommends will be worse in the long run or when the Cloak just misses something. You think back to everything you know about dogs – regardless of whether or not this applies to literally-made-of-magic wolves – and remember that, when introducing oneself, always let the dog make the decision.

So you rotate your hand, palm out, and let the wolf sniff you. You briefly wonder if this is actually working; you are not sure if this wolf actually has scent glands. But then the wolf snorts and briefly presses its nose to your hand and you decide that the debatability of scent glands really does not matter right now.

On your back, the Cloak flutters happily and the Eye on your chest gives off a brief twinkle. They both approve. You just don't know what they're approving.

The wolf nods to you once again, and you nod back; then, like before, the wolf dissolves in a shower of sparks. You let yourself back out of the Mirror Dimension, pause to get your bearings-

-and walk straight into Wong. He looks at you, then holds out a place of spaghetti and sits you down at the kitchen table, where he hands you the parmesan and the garlic bread and asks you what you were doing.

You explain your meeting with the wolf again, and Wong lets out an understanding noise.

 _You are showing wisdom, Stephen,_ he tells you. _A familiar can be a powerful ally._

Familiar, you repeat, and Wong rolls his eyes. You still have much to learn, he says – a favorite saying of his – and instructs you about familiars and the role they hold in the sorcerer community. Somewhat of a rarity, since the spell cost is so high, a familiar takes the form of an animal that in some way represents the caster or summoner – whichever term is preferred – and can be contracted to do the caster's will. Contracts are forged through physical touch, which then bonds the familiar to the sorcerer and lets the sorcerer summon the familiar at will. In return the familiar is given access to the sorcerer's magic.

You suddenly understand why the Cloak had you let the wolf initiate the contact. Mutual agreement always works much better than a one-sided deal.

 _Do familiars have names?_ You ask.

Wong shrugs. It depends on the sorcerer, he says. Most familiars he has met, which are not many, are called by the name of the animal they are, but he has met one or two that were given more personal designations.

You think for a moment, and decide that calling a creature made of literal magic 'Wolf' does not do it justice. You spend the rest of the meal mulling over different possibilities and eventually decide on a name you read in an old Greek myth: Lycaon.

 _You do know,_ Wong says when he hears this, _that Lycaon was punished by the gods for feeding them human flesh, correct?_

You glare at him. You spend the next twenty minutes arguing over why it is or is not a good name. Eventually you both get fed up and decide to just ask the wolf.

* * *

The wolf does not seem to care. But it pays slightly less attention when addressed as 'Wolf' versus being addressed as 'Lycaon'.

Besides, you think, Lycaon sounds better.

* * *

Wong brings you before the examiners the next day, and the young lady and middle-aged woman join you on either side. The elderly man is not there. He has dropped out, you learn, on account of the stress being hazardous to his health. His heart apparently has a history of being somewhat frail and summoning his tortoise during the first test had been too much of a strain.

This next test, the examiners tell you, will be entirely verbal. Each candidate will sit down individually with a judge and will answer a set of questions. You frown, and feel your relics twitch in response to your mood. You have never liked verbal tests. Your words can be twisted and misunderstood in a way that never happens when you are simply asked to do something.

Your misgivings, though, are entirely ignored and so you are paired up with a well-dressed woman with rimless glasses and a tight, but kind smile. You return the smile dryly, then look away. You would rather this be over as soon as possible.

Your examiner clicks her pen against a clipboard. What, she asks, made you decide that the position of Sorcerer Supreme was a good fit?

You snort before you can stop yourself. This was not your idea. This was Wong putting his nose where it didn't belong and nominating you without your knowledge. He didn't even tell you until two days prior to the first test.

The woman writes this down with impressive speed and raises an eyebrow. _So you do not consider yourself qualified for this position?_

Who would be? You almost laugh outright. The Sorcerer Supreme is responsible for defending all of existence, nobody could possibly be qualified for that. Least of all you.

She asks you why.

So you explain to her, why you came to Kamar-Taj and what you were like beforehand. You describe how long it took you to find your magic and how you only just decided that being a sorcerer was what you would spend the rest of your life doing. There are so many other people, you tell her, who have more experience than you and would have a better grasp on what the Sorcerer Supreme is in charge of. And besides, the whole of existence? They want to put you in charge of existence? You can barely handle your two relics.

 _You dealt with Kaecilius though,_ your examiner says.

You actually do laugh this time, dry and humorless. You barely survived! You almost died at least five different times that day alone and you are almost positive that sheer dumb luck is at least half of the reason you are still alive.

'Dealing' with it might be a strong term, you say levelly, staring your examiner in the eye. You failed to save the life of your teacher and had to watch as she faded right before your eyes. Your fingers fold around an invisible hand as you talk, remembering the feel of the Ancient One's grip before she let go, and you clamp down on your emotions before they can overflow.

You failed to save the life of the previous New York Master, you continue, you failed to stop Mordo from leaving. You had to kill someone, and you are still coming to terms with that. You have nightmares, sometimes, where you see the empty eyes of the man you killed. In your opinion, you are far too much of a mess to be in charge of anything.

The woman nods, thoughtfully. Then she asks you if you think that cost was worth the reward.

You pause. You frown.

You are well aware that you are the reason that Earth still lives, that the people on it still live. Seven billion lives are still continue because of your actions that day, and you know that you would not actually change what you did if it meant that these lives might end.

You nod, decisively, and your examiner writes this down with a smile.

Her next question is a thoroughly mundane, _What would you say your strongest attribute is?_ and the interview continues for the next hour in an entirely uneventful fashion.

Only afterwards do you realize that you completely forgot to throw the test. Your gateway home sparks rather more than usual as a result of your annoyance.

* * *

Your latest attempt at cooking that evening goes spectacularly wrong.

 _How,_ you demand, _is soup this hard to make?_

You do not receive an answer, partly because neither of your relics can talk, partly because Wong is too busy staring at the mess you have created and impersonating a tomato. You have somehow managed to get broth on the ceiling, there is a ladle stuck in a tea kettle, you confused the chopped-up onions with the chopped-up celery and as a result the soup automatically makes the consumer cry whether they want to or not, and you added the wrong kind of cheese as the finisher.

Wong immediately kicks you out of the kitchen and spends the next few hours fixing your soup – and by that, he means that he made a new batch, because there was no fixing your soup. Then he slams the cookbook in front of you along with your bowl and goes over, in extreme detail, exactly where and how you went wrong and what you should have done instead. Then he makes you repeat it back to him, and only once you can describe word for word what you will and will not do next time does he let you leave the table.

But he does not let you leave the kitchen until you have cleaned the broth off the ceiling. It takes you a good thirty minutes.

Afterwards, you retreat to the library with relief and far more respect for the art of soup than you have ever held before. You still have one hundred forty-four books to reorganize the contents of, and the sooner you finish the sooner you can move on to other things. You have not, for example, had a quiet evening with the Cloak in at least a week and you can tell that the both of you miss the activity. Maybe, if you work quickly, you can fit in some time late tonight.

You wonder, sometimes, if other sorcerers have the same relationship with their relics as you do. You had never seen Mordo do anything with his Vaulting Boots except wear them, and when he acquired the Staff of the Living Tribunal it only ever hung on his back, motionless. Your Cloak, on the other hand, frequently attaches and detaches itself from your shoulders on a whim regardless of who might be watching and has never, to your knowledge, acted like a normal cape the way Mordo's act like normal boots. And even the Eye, while definitely more reserved, will open and shut at least a few times a day to flash or twinkle at you.

Perhaps relics simply have a wide range of personalities, you think, finishing off one book and opening another. But then, most relics you meet, including the ones in the display cases downstairs, are content to sit stationary most of the time. It would be just your luck to be chosen by the two most energetic relics in the lineup.

But you know, as the Cloak curls around your back for a moment and the Eye hums on your chest, that you would not trade these two for anything. For objects without mouths or any real methods of communication, they are shockingly good at making you feel valued. It must be that whole 'they chose you' aspect, you decide.

You set down the book you are working on decisively, even though you are not done with it yet. This project can wait, you think. There is something more important you need to do. Something that you cannot believe has taken you this long to remember.

You take off the Eye and set it up on the table in front of you, then gently detach the Cloak from your shoulders and drift it alongside.

 _I just want to say,_ you begin, _thank you, both of you. For everything._ Because, quite honestly, you would have been dead many times over if not for the Cloak, and the Eye has been proving itself to be an excellent guard against your own special brand of idiocy – though you like to think that you have fewer occurrences of that, nowadays. And they watch out for you to an almost unbelievable degree; you cannot count how many times the Cloak had caught you mid-fall the first few days after Kaecilius, when your magic was drained, your body was recovering from being killed a thousand times, and walking was the most painful part of your existence. The Eye has had less time, obviously, but there have already been incidents when you have woken up in a cold sweat, a dead man's eyes staring at you from your dreams, and you have been greeted with a gentle hum, a warmth on your chest, and a soft green glow which forms one of the most soothing atmospheres you have ever experienced.

Your relics curl and shine happily, respectively, and you spend the rest of your evening just enjoying each others' company. The Cloak, of course, is splayed out on your lap like the cat it so often resembles, but the Eye is happy simply hanging around your neck as it so often does. You suspect it likes being near your heartbeat – a measure of time, in a way, one that lets the Eye know you are alive. The Cloak, however, likes to be rubbed.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and for the first time in your memory you fall asleep in a library.

* * *

 **Hmm. Whiplash. I just went from angst aftermath to quality cuddling time.**

 **...What can I say, I'm a sucker for the Cloak. And the Eye is growing on me.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **Rocket Rover, BeatDaBest, and epsi10n for Favoriting/Following!**


	19. Chapter 19

Your name is Stephen Strange and you have a crick in your neck.

Maybe, you decide, you should relocate these 'quiet nights' to your bedroom; at least there, if you fall asleep, you will not be so profoundly uncomfortable in the morning.

Sometime during the night the Cloak went elsewhere, and you quickly take the opportunity for what it is and stand up before your relic can come back and complain about having lost its lap. Then you head to the kitchen and stare at the cookbook for a while, debating on the wisdom of trying french toast versus making actual toast, the latter of which will take much less time and has much less risk of going horribly wrong.

There is, however, the distinct possibility of you catching your breakfast on fire.

You set your stance firmly. You have an MD and a PhD, you have an eidetic memory, and you bargained with Dormammu and lived to tell about it. You can make toast.

You are correct, and after pulling the jam from the refrigerator you sit down at the table with your breakfast and go over what you need to do today.

Finish your project in the library, because you got a bit distracted last night. Then you need to clean the display cases downstairs because the relics like to see what is going on around them and they get annoyed when their glass is dusty. You also need to recalibrate the dimensional windows – you make a point of doing this at least once a week, because leaving them in one location too long has an increased risk of some unfortunate civilian finding one and being absolutely flabbergasted. You still need to send that man an apology letter, you remember, and add that to the list.

That reminds you. You also still owe Christine an apology, because with everything that happened after the Ancient One's death, plus your recovery and now apparent candidacy for Sorcerer Supreme, you had completely forgotten that you popped out of your body in front of her and she probably would still like a competent explanation from you.

You sigh and take a bite of your toast. Already your day is daunting.

The Cloak whisks in from somewhere, likely having been alerted by the smell of toast, and curls around your neck affectionately. With your free hand, you absentmindedly begin giving your relic a rub. Through a somewhat complicated and confusing series of positions, the Cloak ends up curled in your lap exactly like a cat and thrumming in tandem with your core in a manner not dissimilar to a purr. The fact that you are basically petting it does not help this concept in the slightest, but you do not mind. You are amused, though, at how addicted to rubs the Cloak actually is, because you literally stroked the Cloak until you fell asleep last night. The Cloak is funny like this; addicted to heat and rubs. The Eye, on the other hand, is largely content to mind its own business as long as you are wearing it. The trouble starts when you leave it behind.

You learned very early on that the Eye does not like to be left behind. You chew your toast and suppress a shiver at the memory.

You are glad for this, though. You can barely handle the Cloak when it gets clingy, you are not at all sure you could cope with two needy relics at once. Though on that topic, you have not cleaned the Eye once since it chose you, and the Cloak has had at least four baths in the meantime – it keeps finding dirt in the oddest of places, though you have to admit that the Cloak is easily the best duster you have ever seen – and you wonder if you ought to. Obviously cleaning metal and a gem is different than cleaning fabric, but this particular gem is an 'infinity stone' as Wong put it. You will have to ask him if there is any specific methods for cleaning such a thing.

Wong appears in the kitchen a few minutes later and gives you an odd look when he sees you and the Cloak relaxing. His relic, you decide, must not be very clingy. You wonder what that must feel like; you yourself cannot go anywhere nowadays without at least one of your relics tagging along.

You inform Wong of your intentions for the day in between bites of your toast and Wong replies with his usual stoicism. The last round of testing for the position of Sorcerer Supreme is not taking place until the day after tomorrow, so he is pleased that you are not wasting your time in between with failed attempts at cooking. You scoff indignantly and hold up your toast as Exhibit A, but Wong only raises an eyebrow at it. He is thoroughly unimpressed, and tells you that toast is not an acceptable measure of one's cooking ability.

 _Then what, pray tell, is?_ You demand.

Soup, Wong tells you smugly, and catches the jar of blackberry jam that you lob at his head in retaliation. You vow to spend all your future available hours on soup if only to prove him wrong.

Well, after you finish your project, clean the displays, recalibrate the dimensional windows and track down Christine to explain everything to her. Which could take a while. You have a feeling that explaining everything to Christine is going to take a very long time indeed; you do, after all, have a lot of explaining to do.

* * *

You decide not to surprise Christine during her work hours, as that would undoubtedly end poorly for everyone involved, so you instead spend thirty minutes locating her place of residence and wait for her there instead. You are ashamed to admit that, despite your previous close relationship of years ago, you did not actually know where Christine lived. All your time spent together was either done during work, at your own penthouse apartment, or at one of those talks you were so fond of taking her to – the ones where she acted as eye candy on your arm.

Once again, you wish you could slap your past self. Then you realize that sounds like exactly the sort of thing the Eye might do to you as a prank and vow to never express this desire out loud. You have had enough time issues to last for five lifetimes, thank you very much, and running into your narrow-minded arrogant surgeon self sounds like the mother of all time issues.

Which, of course, probably means it will happen at some point. You dearly hope it will wait until you can be better prepared for it, though.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Christine walking up her entryway and opening the door to her house, then disappearing through the door and closing it behind her. You take a deep breath, brace yourself, then walk up to the door and knock.

When Christine opens it and stares at you, you smile in quite possibly the most awkward manner imaginable and ask, like a fool, if you've come at a bad time. Christine shakes her head and shows you in, giving your outfit an incredulous look as she does. You look down at yourself in puzzlement; you do not see anything wrong with what you are wearing. Your tunic is far more comfortable than almost any other article of clothing you have ever worn, and though you are not a fashion expert you would dare say that the silver of the Eye is particularly striking against the royal blue, not to mention the contrast that the red of the Cloak provides.

It abruptly occurs to you that you are wearing what amounts to a superhero outfit. This, you think, may explain Christine's staring. You, however, are inclined to think that she is just jealous. Everyone wishes they had a cape at some point in their life, and yours knows exactly when to flare dramatically for the maximum effect.

You almost laugh outright at the thought of your past self seeing you in a cape and the face you know he would pull. Whenever that inevitable time collapse happens, you will be sure to take pictures.

You wonder if you should be worried that you are planning for what you deem to be an inevitable time collapse by bringing a camera. Surely this cannot be the normal response to this type of thing.

A soft cough alerts you to the fact that you have been standing vacantly in Christine's entryway, and you quickly apologize before moving into the kitchen. Out of sheer habit you ask if she has a kettle and whether or not she would like any tea, and she nods jerkily. The Cloak helpfully hands you some of the tea leaves you keep in your left-hand pocket for emergencies and general lacking-in-tea situations and Christine stares at it, clearly taken off guard.

You decide that your relics should probably be the things you explain first.

Once you finish introducing Christine to the Cloak and the Eye and the Cloak offers a corner for her to shake, you both sit down with your tea in Christine's living room and you take a deep breath. Where should you start?

 _At the beginning,_ Christine suggests somewhat dryly. _Please._

So you do. You tell her about your physical therapist and how he told you about Jonathan Pangborn. You tell her how Pangborn told you about Kamar-Taj, and how you used the last of your money to get there. You talk about how long it took you to find the place, and what you experienced once you did. You spend a long time trying to describe the different dimensions to her, and you are not entirely sure you succeed, but you try all the same, and you tell how at first you were not accepted.

You describe your first lessons and how you met Wong, your difficulties deciphering the rules behind Sanskrit grammar, the seeming impossibility of using magic. You talk about your elation and later frustration at your ability to produce sparks, and the Ancient One's unorthodox teaching methods that finally let you unlock your power. You demonstrate, casting a simple spell matrix right there in front of Christine, and the glow reflects on her awestruck face like a sunrise.

You talk about Kaecilius. About how he tried join this dimension to the Dark Dimension, about how he almost succeeded. You tell Christine about the attack on the Sanctums and finally explain how you ended up in the hospital with a stab wound in your chest.

You apologize for your spectacular lack of proper explanation at the time. Christine forgives you. She is caught up in the story now, and she listens eagerly as you talk.

You tell her how the Ancient One died, why she died. You talk about arriving at the Hong Kong Sanctum, about seeing it crumble. You tell her about your last gamble.

You tell her about Dormammu.

You skim over your bargain, you brush over your deaths, try to make it seem like it wasn't all that bad, but you can tell Christine does not believe you. One of her hands finds its way onto yours and you take comfort in the warmth. You still feel the pain of your deaths, sometimes, and you are not sure it will ever go away. But moments like this always remind you why it was worth it.

You briefly mention the price Kaecilius paid, then move on to your recovery. You tell Christine about getting the Sanctum back in order, about having to mediate between relics and move the dimensional windows every now and then to prevent another confused civilian stumbling through. You talk about having to learn how to cook, about being chosen by the Eye, about learning both your relics' personalities. You talk about having to always coax the Cloak into taking a bath, and how your relics always seem to know when you need them.

And you tell her about your candidacy, how you are somehow one of the best choices for Sorcerer Supreme, how nobody will listen when you try to tell them otherwise. You have been trying, you say, chuckling a bit, to deliberately fail, but it has not been working so far.

Christine does not laugh with you, but instead sips her tea thoughtfully.

 _Well, why not you?_ She says, once you sober. You stare at her, blinking. Of all people, she is not one of the ones you would have predicted to be on the examiner's side. Christine knew what you used to be like; she should have better perspective than anyone, to agree with you on this.

You ask her, slowly, to elaborate.

Stephen, she says fondly, you have changed. She can see it, and she knows you can see it too. You know who you used to be and you do not like it. Is she right in thinking that you will go to great lengths to keep yourself from falling down that path again?

She is, you admit to yourself. You will not be walking that road again if you can help it.

That right there, Christine says, pointing, is why you are a good choice. You have already seen the fallacies of letting yourself be consumed with self-importance and so you will always be on guard to prevent it. You have already proven that you will go to great, almost impossible lengths to ensure the safety of others at the risk of your own well-being. If you are afraid of relapsing, you cannot find a more vivid example of your selflessness than that.

That's not the point, you argue. Yes, you are alright now, but who can say about the future? Importance and power went to your head once already, in the OR. Why should Sorcerer Supreme be any different?

Because, Christine says, she will be here to smack you back to your senses. Right along with the Cloak, the Eye, and Wong. You have people to keep you on the right path now, she continues. They will not let you fall.

You look away. It is a nice thought, but you had 'people' before. Look how much good it did you. It is times like these that you so badly wish the Ancient One were still here that the loss is almost tangible.

That, in itself, is part of the problem. Who are you to take over from someone that great, that good? How could you ever fill the hole she has left behind?

 _You don't,_ Christine says quietly. You honor her memory by doing the best you can, not the best she could. You are not her, and nobody will expect you to be.

You expect you to be, you reply, and Christine sighs.

 _I didn't know the Ancient One like you did_ , she says, _but am I right in thinking that she always took care of her own?_

You nod, wondering where this is going. Christine smiles. What the Ancient One did, Christine explains, was no different from what you did when you confronted Dormammu. You both were protecting your own; she took care of her followers, as was her duty as Sorcerer Supreme, and you took care of the community that had taken you in and healed you when you were broken. And she will bet, Christine continues, that regardless of your position in this community, you would do the same right here and now if they were in danger.

You have to admit that she is right.

So, Christine finishes triumphantly, why not take care of the people from the position that gives you the most perks to do it with?

You pause. You open your mouth, raise a finger, and are utterly unable to find a way to argue with this. Your mouth slowly closes and you glare at Christine, mildly irritated at being backed into a verbal corner like this. But then, Christine always did have a way of making you tongue-tied.

 _Thank you,_ you say after a moment, and you truly do mean it. Christine smiles at you again.

 _You're welcome._

Silence fills the room, comfortable at first but growing slowly more awkward as the seconds tick past. You are suddenly aware that at one point you were in a committed romantic relationship with this woman, and she is sitting not two feet away from you and is in fact still holding your hand.

You quickly excuse yourself to pour more tea and determinedly ignore the way the Eye is laughing at you.

Your name is Stephen Strange and you officially do not know how to deal with a pretty woman.

* * *

 **You know, the Eye putting Stephen back in time to meet his surgeon-self sounds like an absolutely hysterical oneshot idea… I call it! No idea when I'll write it, but I totally call dibs on that plot for a later date!**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Guest: Well, where would be the fun in that? Plus, I'm not sure that** _ **kind**_ **of magic exists in the Doctor Strange universe. Almost all of his spells and things - historically, anyways - revolve around expelling evil and calling on the 'Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth' (and I'm not even kidding, go look it up). I suppose, technically, there could be a spell for making soup, but would you rather read about Stephen casting a spell to make dinner or attempting to cook on his own? (Personally, I think the latter is** _ **far**_ **more amusing)**


	20. Chapter 20

Your name is Stephen Strange and you are still surprised Christine managed to talk you into this candidacy mess.

You are still not truly sure that you being in charge is a good idea, but given that nearly everybody around you thinks otherwise you decide that they cannot possibly all be wrong. Thus, you decide, you will not try and throw the last round of tests. Instead, you will simply do the best you can, and if it ends with you as Sorcerer Supreme, then so be it.

But in the meantime, you have dinner to make. Wong has still not let your previous failure rest and you are determined to both prove him wrong and make an actual meal that looks edible.

Previous attempts have not always appeared that way.

You have set the Eye up on the counter with the idea that, if you have done something horribly wrong, it will rewind you until you get it right, and you have instructed the Cloak to help you with ingredients. Despite all evidence to the contrary, this is actually one of your better ideas; the Cloak has already stopped you from adding salt instead of sugar and water instead of vinegar, and you readily admit that the Cloak might be a better cook than you are.

Well, it might be if it could work the mixer. Unfortunately for the Cloak, the mixer is not made for fabric appendages and so you take care of the actual blending of the ingredients.

Under the watch of your relics, the vinaigrette manages come out looking actually tasty, and you give the Cloak a grateful rub. Then you hand it a wooden spoon and let it toss the salad while you pour the vinaigrette on, and dodge the occasional flying spinach when your relic gets too enthusiastic.

The Eye, meanwhile, is content to watch and laugh at you when you fail to dodge fast enough and get arugula in your hair. You flick some vinaigrette at it in retaliation, only to have the droplets freeze in midair and fall to the countertop before ever reaching their target. You point a finger at the Eye accusingly.

 _That,_ you scold, _is cheating._

The Eye just flashes at you, laughing in its nonverbal way.

You cook in the kitchen for another hour, pulling together an actually quite nice-looking steak salad that you take absolutely none of the credit for. The only reason the steak is not burnt is because the Eye acted as your incredibly persistent timer. And in all honesty, the garnish of bleu cheese on top was entirely the Cloak's idea.

Really, the only thing you did was handle all of it.

But that is okay, you decide. It is actually fun, having your relics cook with you, and the three of you bounce off one another in ways that makes the whole meal more enjoyable. So you are not particularly skilled unless your relics are around to help. So what? You know for a fact that the Cloak has far more life experience than you do, and the Eye can see through time. Of course they will be more adept at things than you.

Besides, you think as you pick up your fork and begin your meal, the Eye can time a mean steak.

* * *

Wong does not admit he is impressed with your cooking, but you can tell he is surprised. You are slowly learning the variations of his neutral face and this particular variation says that he did not expect you to produce something quite this tasty. You freely admit that your relics helped you out when he asks what you did, and to your surprise Wong does not mock you like other people would have done.

Instead, he nods over his forkful of arugula and says, _Wise choice_. There are always things we can learn from relics, he tells you, since they have lived so much longer. It is a shame that not many people think to ask them.

You find that somewhat unbelievable. In your experience, it is hard not to think about your relics, especially given the fact that they never leave you alone.

Most relics are a bit more reserved, Wong admits, eyeing the Cloak as it curls happily against your collarbone. You consider that notion and find it bizarre, then decide that you rather like having nosy relics in your life. Someone needs to keep you accountable when nobody else is around, so why not the sentient cape and amulet that have adopted you?

Your life is weird, you think to yourself, and shake your head in bewilderment.

* * *

When the time for the final set of tests comes, you and the middle-aged woman stand next to each other alone in front of the examiners. The young lady, apparently, did not make the cut. You wonder what the woman next to you brings that has the examiners so interested in her.

You also wonder that about yourself. Whatever Christine and Wong and the rest of the people see in you that makes you Supreme material, you still have not quite yet figured out. Right now you are just accepting that it is there and hoping to put a name to it later.

This test takes the form of a trial run, of sorts, of the duties of a Sorcerer Supreme. You and your fellow candidate will be making a circuit patrol of the various barriers separating this dimension from the next ones and familiarizing yourselves with the working of the shields. You will then be instructed on how to repair and maintain these barriers, how to check for breaches, and taught the general ways that any malevolent entities on the other side may be fought off if need be by your accompanying instructor.

This should be interesting, you think apprehensively, and follow your examiner through a gateway with your fellow candidate to the building on the other side. You look around in surprise; this is a Sanctum. Not your Sanctum, but you can recognize one anywhere by this point. The examiner gives a brief explanation while you process your surroundings and you learn that this is the London Sanctum, newly repaired after Kaecilius tore it apart. The three of you are currently in the heart of the Sanctum itself, where the barrier between dimensions is maintained in conjunction with the other two Sanctums and Kamar-Taj. You take everything in with wide eyes and even wider ears, because if your Sanctum in New York is anything like this one then that means that somewhere in your home is a critical point to a barrier that protects the world. You resolve to find and do maintenance on this barrier as soon as possible once this test is over.

Your examiner talks the two of you through the spellwork being used to power the forcefield, then has you put it into practice to see if you can actually do it. It takes you a couple tries, because this is quite possibly the most complicated spell matrix you have ever conjured, but on the fourth you manage to connect the final threads together and a miniature version of the barrier blazes to life around your body. You stare at it and marvel; aside from the initial power required to create it, this spell actually runs on its own energy and is self-sustaining. Of course it takes a substantial amount of magic to get going, but once there it can run for... a few months at least, you estimate.

You wonder who designed such a thing. You would love to meet them and talk about spell matrices for a few hours. Or days.

The shield endures for a few seconds longer before you break the circuit – which takes much more effort than you expected – and the whole thing dissolved in a shower of sparks.

Well done, the examiner praises, and you flash a smirk before powering up the spell again. It takes you another four tries to connect it to itself, but those four tries go quicker than the first time and you feel properly vindicated with your progress.

You continue casting and recasting the barrier until you can connect it without any problems, then start experimenting with how large you can make it. The full-sized specimen covers the entire Earth, and although you are well aware that particular spell is powered by four different locations you are avidly curious about the ramifications. You have stopped paying attention to the examiner long ago. Fortunately, he seems occupied with assisting your fellow candidate as opposed to scolding you for lack of participation.

At that point, though, everything becomes a bit moot because a dark-haired man dressed in green and gold appears out of literal nowhere, scaring the living daylights out of both you and your examiner. Your examiner, because this is supposed to be a private affair, and you, because the man is within inches of your current position. You take a startled step backwards, and in your lapse of concentration the shield spell you are sustaining shatters. The dark-haired man pays you no attention, instead turning and scrutinizing the full-sized barrier rippling across the planet's surface.

 _Not enough,_ he says in a slightly-accented, level voice and flicks his fingers intricately. Above your head, the barrier pulses and shifts from bright gold to deep green and your examiner lets out a startled - and angry - yell. He demands to know what the stranger has done to the barrier protecting the planet.

The stranger looks at your examiner. And he laughs.

Quietly, you summon Lycaon behind your back. You have a feeling this may be going somewhere you don't want it to go. Although, neither the Eye nor the Cloak has reacted particularly vehemently to the current events, oddly enough.

 _How typical of the human race_ , the stranger says once he finishes chuckling. _Even those who pretend to be enlightened are so very blind._

Abruptly, the barrier sparks as something collides with it, and the stranger's mirth dies instantly. He snaps his eyes up and scowls at something on the other side.

 _Clever girl_ , he murmurs, and vanishes just as abruptly as he appeared. You hold your tense position for a few moments, trying to ascertain if the man will return. Seconds pass and nothing happens.

Then your examiner lets out a shaky breath and with it, tells you that the final test for the position of Sorcerer Supreme has been suspended indefinitely due to an attack on the planet's spiritual barrier. You do not even have time to ask anything before the man is already spinning a gateway back to Kamar-Taj and vanishing through it, leaving you and your fellow candidate to exchange confused and worried looks.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and even though you already saved the planet once, it seems that you might need to save it again.

* * *

 **So… Sorry about missing Friday. All my exams happened this week and everything got crazy-hectic. But, I'm back now, school's over, and as far as I know there shouldn't be anything else keeping me from posting as I always have!**

 **On to the chapter! Because Thor: Ragnarok has not come out yet, I am basing everything on the bits we've seen from the trailer and the post credits scene at the end of Doctor Strange. So while I'm still attempting to follow canon... I'd say we're pretty firmly in AU territory now.**

 **Changeling**


	21. Chapter 21

Your name is Stephen Strange and you are surrounded by chaos.

Wong is almost a literal whirlwind of activity, storming around the Sanctum with single-minded purpose and it is all you can do to simply stay out of his way. Unlike you, he seems to know exactly what is going on and it is very clear that he does not like it one bit.

You have never seen him this agitated before. You do not think you like it. Wong has a face meant for stoicism, and you are afraid that this level of animation might crack it.

You manage to catch him between rounding up defensive charms and marching off again in search of offensive charms, and quickly ask him what exactly the problem is. Quite frankly, no one has told you anything since your final test was cancelled and you are completely lost.

Wong scowls at you, and instead of answering your question asks you why you are not preparing like everyone else. His tone implies disbelief and a greatly heightened opinion of your sanity.

You bristle. _I'm not preparing,_ you snap, _because I have_ _no idea_ _what's going on._

Wong blinks at you. Did you, he asks, or did you not take the lessons on the history and current status of the sorcerer society?

Somewhat sheepishly, you inform him that you did not. Those particular lessons had been early in your Kamar-Taj career, when you were still arrogant and proud enough to think such things were not worth your time. You can already tell that this will be coming back to bite you, if it is not already doing so now. Almost everything you did back then has come back and bitten you in one way or another.

Wong massages his eyes with his fingers.

 _Have you ever heard of a man called Loki?_ He asks you.

Your memory is eidetic, and the name triggers a connection within your head. A recollection of a hospital crammed far fuller than the safety recommendations advise while actual aliens ravaged the streets and a small group of mismatched heroes fought furiously to stem the invasion. In particular, you remember reading the newspapers in the aftermath and the name that all the blame was pinned on.

 _The sort-of literal god who invaded New York last year?_ You check, just to make absolutely sure. Because if Wong is telling you that Loki is the man who appeared and did something to the protective planetary barrier, then you have a massive problem.

But as much as you want him not to, Wong nods in confirmation. Then he continues with his search for the offensive charms, leaving you to stand in disbelief and a fair amount of annoyance.

It has been all of two months since you stopped Dormammu. Two months. Maybe even less. Why, you ask the universe frustratedly, can the world not stay saved when you save it?

You set your shoulders. This is going to require decisive and preemptive action, because there is no way that you are going to allow things to escalate like the last time the world almost ended. You are going to cut this off right at the source, and you know just how to get started.

Loki, you remember, has a brother. And that brother does not particularly approve of his sibling's life choices.

* * *

Finding the god of thunder is proving to be a harder task than you anticipated. He apparently lives in space – or perhaps that was an alternate dimension – which understandably makes it hard to get in touch. As much as you dislike the notion, you settle for going through secondary channels instead.

Though, how the Avengers can be considered 'secondary channels' is probably beyond anyone but you.

It does not help that Tony Stark grates on your nerves in a curiously familiar way. It definitely does not help that this call was by your request and thus makes it impossible for you to hang up on the man without seeming rude. Although, it is entirely possible that Tony may not actually care about perceived rudeness. He is like that, you remember. He did not care what others thought of him then and he does not care what others think of him now – unless, it seems, those others are a fellow teammate or a woman named Pepper.

You, on the other hand, do care, and so you make the call whether you want to or not.

Immediately Tony makes a pun out of your name, asking if it's 'Strange' to be coming to someone else for help. Had that come from anyone else, you would have hung up. Tony, however, runs on a different wavelength from the rest of society; in fact, you are fairly certain that the more Tony irritates a person, the more he likes that person.

You ignore Tony's pun, because you have more important things to deal with, and get straight to the point. You need to find Thor, and as far as you know, the Avengers were the last people who saw him.

Tony sighs on the other end of the line. _Lemme guess, Loki ticked you off too? He does that a lot. Wanna join the club?_

You highly doubt there is actually a club and respectfully decline. You really just need to know where to find his brother, thanks.

Tony chuckles, and it sounds like he is amused for more reasons than one. _Well, you're in luck. Goldilocks actually just popped down on business. Apparently he's none too happy with his dear brother right now._

 _That makes two of us,_ you reply, and ask where you can find the god of thunder.

Tony surprises you. He tells you that you do not need to do anything; Tony will send Thor your way later that afternoon.

You thank him.

 _Anything for a Beard Bro,_ Tony says, and you promptly choke despite having nothing in your mouth. Tony is given a direct concert of your coughing fit and you can just tell that he is grinning.

You knew it was going to be a mistake to call an old college classmate, you just knew it. You are not a 'Beard Bro', and you are certainly not one with Tony Stark. Not that Tony seems to notice that. You hang up as soon as you can manage, then go and track down Wong because you have a possible deity coming for tea and Wong will likely attempt to strangle you if he does not know about such things beforehand.

 _You plan to serve the god of thunder_ _tea?_ Wong asks dryly. _He does not drink tea._

Well then what does he drink, you ask. Because this is a man who could smite you in one blow if he so chose and you would rather avoid that scenario. First and foremost, you will do it by being a polite host.

Probably beer, Wong tells you, and sends you off into the relic wing to retrieve a Chalice that will alter itself to the size and beverage preferences of the user. Convincing the relic takes a few minutes – not that you had anything to do with it. You just held the thing while the Cloak flapped at it and the Eye flashed. Your general understanding is that the Chalice will serve Thor for exactly one hour, no more, no less.

That is fine; you do not intend to be talking with the god of thunder for more than ten minutes. Now you just have to get to your point without him smiting you.

* * *

For a supposed god, the man who is sitting on your couch looks rather like a hobo. His hair falls to his shoulders and looks as though he forgot to brush it this morning, and he wears a white tank-top with a plaid button-down hanging open over top. Add just a little dirt and he could easily join the group of homeless who gather under bridges further in the city.

But then, the way he holds himself and the way he speaks would out him instantly.

You have no real idea how to deal with someone of Thor's standing, so you pull out some of your old arrogance and basically bluff your way into his business. You tell him you keep a list of people with the potential to endanger the planet, and that Loki is on it. This is blatantly untrue, but technically you could make the list right here and now, and Loki would be on it. It would consist of him and Dormammu, because those are the only two names you know that belong to things that might endanger the planet. You have no doubt there are more. You simply do not have any idea what they are called.

From there, Thor seems indifferent, at best, to the idea of you inserting yourself into his sibling rivalry. However, you are stubborn and you are not taking no for an answer, especially given what happened the last time you were involved with a possible planetary destruction. If you do not get involved now, it will only be worse when you get involved later.

So you stand up and say, _Allow me to help you_ , in a way that brooks no argument, and immediately stride out the door while a somewhat startled Thor sets down the Chalice on the table and hurries out behind you.

You sincerely hope that this will go more smoothly than the Battle for Manhattan did last year.

* * *

Before any of that, though, you need to actually find Loki first. You have absolutely no illusions as to the difficulty level of this task – according to Thor, not only can Loki manipulate the perception of those around him whenever and however he wishes, but he also has a tendency to be in another plane of existence entirely. Even if he is on Earth – or Midgard, as Thor puts it – the odds of you recognizing that it is him are astronomical.

You grit your teeth in frustration and wrack your memory to see if you have anything in your arsenal that might make this easier. A memory of a rearranged spellbook comes to your mind, one of the ones that you moved the warnings in. It was a book on magic signatures – specifically, how to track them.

 _You wouldn't happen to carry anything Loki enchanted, would you?_ You ask your companion for the heck of it. You need to know the signature you are tracing in order to trace it, but you have never been exposed to Loki's magic before. Without that, you are right back where you started.

But to your surprise, Thor reaches into a pocket and removes a wooden cube, which begins disassembling and reassembling itself in his palm the instant he lets go. It is a device used as a test in Asgard, he explains to you. Children are given a series of tests early in their life to determine which path will be the best suited for them. This was the test for magic, which Loki had passed with flying colors.

That is all very well and good, and you are grateful for the lucky break, but why does Thor have Loki's test in his pocket?

Thor, possibly-deity that he is, actually flushes a little. _I was not the most gracious loser in my youth,_ he mutters. Having Loki be better at something than he was had rubbed him the wrong way, and Thor had promptly confiscated the test to try and make it work for himself. Obviously, he adds, he never could make it work. Now it is just a memory of a time where their sibling bond was still intact, before Loki had done what he did, before Thor's actions had estranged him.

You nod, and one of your shaky fingers brushes along the face of the broken watch you wear. You know a very similar feeling.

Thor holds the cube out to you, and you take a focusing breath before spreading your hands over the object. You ignore how Thor eyes your scars and the way your fingers shake; you are used to it, by now, and you have more important things to focus on anyways. You carve a fiery line into the air, then split it in half again and again until the cube is surrounded by shards of your own power. Then you quickly snap your fingers and a geometric spheroid blazes to life. Within the confines of your spell, the cube begins to emit a flickering silver-green aura.

 _That's his,_ Thor says, excitedly. _Can you track him?_

You take another focusing breath, because now is the hard part, the bit that all the warnings were about because apparently a sorcerer can blow out their entire core in trying to sustain this. While you know that won't be a problem for you, there is still the matter of holding your concentration and that will be another battle entirely. Thor, while eager to help, does not seem to grasp the concept that sometimes a person needs silence to concentrate.

So you narrow your eyes and snap your hands out wide, and the geometric construct of your magic shoots and expands to cover the entire city block. The silver-green aura wafting off the cube suddenly becomes a trail leading haphazardly down the street and out of sight.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and against your better judgement you are now in pursuit of a mass murderer.

* * *

 **Hey guys, sorry for the delay. I was in a hotel with crap wifi. It was almost worse than no wifi, because it got my hopes up and then smashed them into a brick wall.**

 **Anyways! I have briefly returned to canon, and promptly run away from it again. Unless** _ **Thor: Ragnarok**_ **comes out unexpectedly, I am officially out of canon to follow. Wish me luck.**

 **Also, just as a heads-up: NHP will now be updated on a weekly basis rather than biweekly. I'm thinking Fridays - unless you all would rather have Monday? Let me know, I guess.**

 **Changeling**


	22. Chapter 22

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are discovering that Thor makes for a terrible hunting companion.

True, your prey is nothing so skittish as a rabbit, but any hope you have of catching Loki off-guard or possibly by surprise dies a horribly painful death when Thor decides that he is ill-equipped for the future confrontation and hits himself with lightning to manifest his battle armor. Once your hearing returns and you manage to blink the spots out of your vision, you swing your best irate glare at the god of thunder in the hopes that he might take the hint.

Instead, he merely tilts his head at you, holds out his arm like a scarecrow, and says, _What?_

Your Cloak jerks you down as Thor's signature hammer comes flying in over your head. You whisper a thank-you, then straighten up and sigh. Nothing, you say. Just mourning the death of subtlety.

 _Was he a friend of yours? My condolences,_ Thor says. You pinch the bridge of your nose and, with effort, focus on the more important problem.

The green aura trail is still leading you through the city, and by this point you have begun flying instead of walking if only to keep up with your companion if nothing else. Among other virtues that Thor seems to be ill-acquainted with, patience is unfortunately included with them. You can only be thankful that he has not decided to fly himself – you know he would outpace you by a mile.

Thankfully though, Thor does seem to have an awareness of the differences between his stamina and yours, and he never moves faster than what you can keep up with. You are, after all, the man maintaining the locator spell, and if Thor loses you then he loses Loki. He is not stupid; far from it, actually. It is simply that most of his intelligence lies in his common sense and battle prowess rather than strategy and wit.

New York is a massive city, though, and so it does not surprise you when your search takes you well into the evening. Even while flying, a metropolis is no easy thing to navigate, and it does not help that Loki's power signature ignores all notion of buildings and obstacles and in fact just plows straight on through. When you decide to get a birds-eye view of the situation before you lose the light completely, the trail just extends and keeps on going until you lose it in the haze of the city pollution.

You frown, then raise a hand and shakily follow the line of Loki's aura as best as you can manage. More or less, it seems like a straight shot.

 _I'm going to try a quick experiment,_ you say to Thor, who is floating beside you with his hammer flashing like a helicopter rotor. Your power flashes between your fingers and you carve a gateway to the edge of the city, at about the location where you think the trail is leading. You cancel and reapply the locator spell as you float through and step to the ground on the other side, and the green trail you have been following comes into view once again.

It is still, more or less, leading out of the city in a straight line. You furrow your brow and prepare yourself to create a lot more gateways. It is a good thing they take so little magic to make.

* * *

Loki seems to have sequestered himself in the most remote place he could find on this side of the hemisphere, you conclude after the eighteenth gateway jump. It may have also been the last gateway jump; the spell requires that the caster know where they are going, and you do not recognize any of your surroundings anymore. It occurs to you that this is a major flaw in your ability to get places and firmly mark 'memorize the planet' down on your list of Things To Do. If for some reason you end up as Sorcerer Supreme in the future, not being able to portal to the enemy because you do not know what Nebraska looks like would be a very serious hitch in your ability to defend said Nebraska.

But you have more important things to deal with. Mapping the planet for yourself can happen later; right now you still have a god of mischief to track down and he will not be finding himself.

No matter how convenient that would be.

* * *

It is dark by the time Loki's trail curls around itself and vanishes into thin air. You quickly suspend the light ball you have been sustaining in the air instead of in your hand and move to examine the point where the aura cuts off. Thor strides up next to you with his cape billowing, and his face morphs into confusion.

 _I do not understand,_ he says. _Where is my brother?_

You would like to know that as well. This is where he should be, where the trail ends. But he quite clearly is not. And while in all theory you could rewind the world to see where your quarry went, that would both drain you substantially and likely tick off the Eye. Aside from helping with the occasional cooking mishaps, the Eye is firmly of the opinion that you are only allowed to mess with time when the universe might end if you don't. And although Loki poses a significant threat, you do not think the universe is in danger of stopping just yet.

Still, that does not mean you cannot ask your relics' advice.

 _Give me a moment,_ you say to Thor, then turn your head to your relics. _Any ideas?_ you ask them.

The Eye slides open an inch or so and flashes at you, then slides back shut again. Unfortunately, you are still learning the Eye's form of communication and charades and so whatever it said goes mostly over your head. The Cloak, however, slides off your shoulders and mimics a sharp breaking motion, followed by an impressive display of angles and planes as opposed to the usual waves that the Cloak moves in. The meaning hits you immediately.

 _He's moved to another dimensional plane,_ you say, and the Cloak bobs in agreement before darting back to your shoulders. You ignore Thor's blink of confusion and instead reach out and crack the barrier to the Mirror Dimension. With any luck, you will only have to do this once instead of cycling through multiple different planes of reality. There are a few that you would rather not visit again.

When you step through the warp, you are greeted with the sight of the man from the planetary barrier, wearing what looks like battle armor and a ridiculously ornamental horned helmet. He sits on the ground cross-legged, one dagger in his hand and another at his side. He seems to be applying some sort of enchantment to the weapon he is holding, but when he notices your and Thor's arrival he stops, sheaths both blades in scabbards on his legs, and smirks.

 _Well it certainly took you long enough,_ he says.

Whatever you are going to say in reply is cut off, because Thor is already darting forwards and attempting to strangle his adoptive brother one-handedly. From what you gather from his yelling, Loki has been involved in a large number of wrongdoings and the like – the most recent of which, apparently, is pretending to be his own missing father.

For all that Thor is literally in his face, though, Loki shows no sign of being ruffled by the accusations. Instead, he says, _Well of course I did. Can you imagine the chaos that would erupt were Asgard to discover the All-Father is missing?_

From the look on Thor's face and his subsequent explosion, you can only assume that he has lived through said chaos quite recently. Loki, though, is unfazed as ever. Because, he says, while all of Asgard was busy panicking like revealed cockroaches, he was dealing with a larger problem.

 _WHAT PROBLEM COULD POSSIBLY BE WORSE THAN OUR MISSING FATHER!?_ Thor bellows into Loki's face. His hammer begins sparking, and you take some prudent steps backwards. You would rather not be in the blast zone.

 _Does the word 'Ragnarok' ring a bell?_ Loki asks dryly.

Thor turns pale, and you immediately wrack your memory. An old myth you read in your younger years floats to the surface, an ancient Viking legend about the end of the world.

 _You're trying to destroy the planet,_ you say sharply, and magic sparks to life in your palms. Loki eyes you and scoffs. Humans, he says. How  do they get by with such small brains?

 _Explain yourself,_ Thor growls.

Loki sighs. Then he looks at you again. You were at the barrier that day, he states. You saw her, right?

You saw no one but Loki, and from your point of view Loki endangered the planetary protective system. Unless he is talking about your fellow candidate, there was no other woman there.

Loki rolls his eyes. _No, not the mortal female,_ he says. _Hela._

Thor's grip on his hammer abruptly becomes tight enough that his knuckles turn white. Do not listen to him, he tells you. Loki is the Trickster. He lies. Loki, in response to this, says, _Would I really lie about something like this?_

The look Thor gives him seems to imply an affirmative. You, however, are just confused.

Who is Hela?

Both Thor and Loki look at you with the exact same expression of exasperation, and for just a moment you can see the family resemblance even though they are not actually related. Then Thor clears his throat and tells you that Hela is the Asgardian who rules over the realm of the dead. She is able to kill anything she wants with just a touch. She commands an army made of all the deceased that have ever existed. Her skill with a sword is fearsome and her magic is nearly unparalleled. And if she has decided to end the world... it will be nigh impossible to stop her.

You absorb that for a moment, silently curse your luck, and ask, _Is there any_ _good_ _news?_

Loki grins in a manner highly reminiscent of a shark, and you suddenly regret asking. _I know where she is,_ he says far too cheerfully.

Your name is Stephen Strange and you have no idea what you have gotten yourself into anymore.

* * *

 **Don't worry, I have a plan! I know exactly where I'm going with this... I think. Sixty percent sure.**

 **Anyways, you should all go look Hela up. She's pretty epic, if I do say so myself. It's a shame that she's usually content with her dead, if she wanted to she could probably take over all Nine Realms with a bit of effort. The woman's literally got an (effectively limitless) undead army. Just imagine how awesome that would be.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to The Time Lord Named The Author for Favoriting/Following!**


	23. Chapter 23

Your name is Stephen Strange and you are afraid that Wong is going to burst a blood vessel.

He has always been intimidating in one way or another, but only now do you realize how truly terrifying Wong can be in the right circumstances. His glower could probably kill an elephant on sight, and you have to wonder how his current target is not at least a little bit cowed.

Then again, Loki seems to run on an entirely different wavelength from the rest of the world.

 _Are you really going to continue to point that at me?_ He says, eyeing the Wand of Watoomb that Wong has brandished in the Asgardian's face. _You_ _do __know who I am, right?_

Wong ignores him. Instead, he turns his head slightly to the side, his eyes still trained on Loki, and says, _Stephen. Explain why the god of lies is in my kitchen._ _NOW._

It is precisely for this reason why you have always attempted to remain in Wong's good graces, because the look you know he would be giving you if he wasn't currently pinning Loki with it would make milk curdle within seconds. For your own continued health and safety, you quickly summarize the search for Loki, where you eventually found him, and how you had decided to reconvene back in the New York Sanctum to plan for Hela's oncoming invasion. It is, after all, quite late at night and you and Thor have been on Loki's trail since early this morning.

And since when is it Wong's kitchen? You are the one who actually lives in the Sanctum, Wong just divides his time between here and Kamar-Taj.

You suddenly find one end of the Wand of Watoomb pointed at you, regardless of the fact that Wong is still threatening Loki with the other end. It seems that Wong is in even less of a mood to put up with your occasional sarcasm than normal. He somehow manages to shift his glare onto both you and Loki, then releases an infuriated sigh and stands down.

As much as he hates to admit it, Wong says, if Hela is truly coming then there is a bigger threat to be dealt with than the Trickster. But it is going to take a lot of convincing before he believes such a claim. You fail to hide your frustration, but you reluctantly accept Wong's position all the same; you of all people know how much you want the world to not be ending this time.

Much to your relief, though, Thor takes over the explanation from there and he is surprisingly succinct. Wong takes the information from the god of thunder much better than he did from the god of lies, and once Thor has finished Wong almost looks worried.

Of course, this means that Wong is in fact reaching levels of paranoid worry, because any emotion Wong shows must automatically be multiplied by ten in order to give a proper value. You have learned this long ago.

 _I must inform the other Sanctums,_ Wong declares after a moment of thought. He fixes you with a Look and says, _Do not, under any circumstances, let them touch_ _anything_ _._

Loki smirks, which immediately puts all of your nerves on edge, and Thor simply looks bewildered. He has only broken buildings on accident, he protests, only to receive one of Wong's trademarked Glares. Thor subsides with an awkward shuffle.

Wong sweeps his gaze over you once more, just to make his point clear, then casts a gateway and steps through to vanish on the other side. Loki immediately widens his smirk into a grin and replaces his golden armor and helmet with an ornate green tunic in seconds. You level a glare at him. You do not trust Loki any farther than you can throw him, you inform him darkly, and if he steps out of line in any way then you will be happy to 'correct' his mistake.

 _And I will help,_ Thor adds, hefting his hammer pointedly. Loki merely eyes you both, looking continuously amused. Your hospitality is truly staggering, he says dryly.

Your hospitality, you retort, depends on whether or not your guest is a known murderer. Loki's grin widens even more; he does not usually get snarky comebacks, he says.

Well, you snap, the world is usually not in danger of ending. Different people have different coping mechanisms, and it has come to your attention that you become extremely snarky when stressed. And unless Loki wants to find himself on the other end of a stress-fueled magical wolf familiar, he is going to sit down, shut up, and let you make dinner because it has been a very long day and you have not eaten anything since tea early yesterday morning with Thor and by the Vishanti you are in no mood to deal with Loki's personality without something in your hands to prevent yourself from strangling him with a thread-of-cords.

Loki eyes you and then, much to your surprise, sits down and shuts up. Unfortunately, he does not stop smirking, but at this point you are going to take what you can get.

* * *

After deliberation, you decide to make soup. Your decision is absolutely not influenced by the fact that Wong still regards soup as an adequate gauge of one's cooking ability and you feel like rubbing a personal victory in his face. No connection at all.

You eventually settle on chicken tortilla, because chicken is fairly easy, tortillas can be toasted, and chopping vegetables is something that not even your meager cooking skills can mess up. You put the Eye in charge of timing the chicken and the Cloak in charge of measurements. As the only one with hands, you take care of the chopping and the stirring and such. This proves to be one of your better ideas, because your afore-mentioned cooking skills do not actually include knowledge of how to chop an onion, and by the time you actually figure it out (Thor is clueless when you ask him and you do not trust Loki to actually give competent advice, ever) the Eye has had to rewind you twice in order to prevent the chicken from burning and the Cloak has begun playing with the viscosity of the leftover broth (It will float on oil, but not on vinegar).

The end result takes you about a half-hour longer than the recipe tells you, but it looks and smells edible and probably even tasty, so you do not care much. At some point you would like to be at least a somewhat competent chef, but that point is clearly not today and anyways, you do not have the time to practice onion chopping.

Nor do you have the onions, now that you think about it. They are all in the soup.

Thor spends the dinner utterly fascinated with the strips of tortilla that you crisped and insists on eating his soup with them instead of his spoon. You have a horrifying moment when you meet eyes with Loki and discover that you both take a resigned-to-his-naivety approach when it comes to the god of thunder, and you immediately resolve to find a brain-bleach spell (or the next best equivalent) to remove the knowledge that you have anything in common with Loki at the soonest possible convenience.

Then again, it seems as though nearly everyone takes a resigned-to-his-naivety approach with Thor, so perhaps you are overreacting. Talking to Tony again might actually be a less-than-terrible idea, if only to get a better handle on how to... well, handle Asgardians, since Tony's job as Iron Man has much greater proximity to them than you do.

You make a mental note to follow up on that, right after you deal with Loki and Hela and find the time to rub your successful soup in Wong's face.

* * *

Thor succeeds in breaking your expectation threshold just a few hours later when he informs you that he and Loki will be escorting you to Asgard. For a moment, you simply stand and stare at him. Then the Cloak pokes your cheek with one corner of its collar and you snap back into motion with the words, _You can't be serious._

Thor frowns at you. Do you not wish to see the halls of his home? He assures you that it is glorious.

You have nothing against seeing Asgard. In fact, you are fairly certain you might have seen it already, when the Ancient One sent your mind on a multi-dimensional trip in order to beat out some arrogance and beat in some sense. You are also fairly certain Heimdall noticed you and gave you an _extremely_ stern Glare in the split second you were actually present, which you still find intimidating even in your (admittedly eidetic) memory. Your real stopping point, though, is the fact that you are fairly certain that 'Midgardians' are not really allowed in Asgard.

 _That would be why Thor will be taking you as his carry-on,_ Loki interjects.

 _Honored Guest,_ Thor corrects stiffly. Loki rolls his eyes at you behind Thor's back, seeming to think that the two of you share some sort of mutual misfortune from having to deal with the god of thunder. You ignore him.

 _You're certain this won't be an issue?_ You ask.

Thor laughs and pretends to be offended, slapping your shoulder. The force of the contact pitches you halfway to the ground before the Cloak catches you, but Thor does not notice. Any friend of his, he says with a thousand-watt grin, is a friend of Asgard's and he will be honored to have you accompany him to his home.

You have literally met this man less than twenty-four hours ago and he somehow already considers you a friend. You quickly blank your face and hope to all the dimensional beings you know of that your surprise and startled distaste did not make it onto your features. The grin Loki give you makes you suspect that it did anyway, and you give him a glare. Thor is not an unpleasant person, but he is so very enthusiastic that you feel smothered the moment he opens his mouth. By nature, you are a relatively reserved man; despite repeated attempts, humor just does not come easily, and neither does social interaction. A great deal of this is your own fault, of course. Your old arrogance and reputation did not do you very many favors in terms of personal relationships, and you have discovered that people only truly thought you were funny because they ranked lower than you and they wanted to curry favor. Wong is probably the one truly genuine person you have ever met, who tells you that your humor is lacking and deigns to meet you halfway at the place where your pitiful social skills end. Thor, though you have not known him long, seems to be fairly genuine as well, but ironically his social skills are just as stunted as yours for an entirely different reason.

Basically, you are absolutely flabbergasted that the god of thunder thinks the two of you have a strong enough relationship to be considered friends. The gap in common ground between the two of you is miles wide and neither of you are socially savvy enough to bridge it. Luckily (or unluckily) for you, Thor appears to have no concept of this distance and is intending to try and bridge it anyways.

You resolve to brace yourself for several unexpected and highly enthusiastic visits in the future.

Once you have accepted the invitation, Loki fills you both in on what to expect. According to him, Hela is aiming to bring about Ragnarok, and one viable way to do that is to bring down Asgard. Another viable way would have been to break the dimensional barrier surrounding Earth and calling all the antagonistic extra-dimensional entities out to play, but since Loki prevented her from doing that – _You're welcome, by the way,_ he says smugly – she will likely move on to Asgard. Earth was her first target because it would have been an easier conquest, but now that the sorcerers are on alert, she could possibly switch objectives. It all depends on whether or not she decides that an Asgard without Odin is more (or less) defenseless than an Earth with a reinforced barrier and the entire contingent of sorcerers on high alert.

 _The trick is,_ Loki says, _that we need to figure this out either sooner than or at the same time that she does._ It's a real shame nobody has Time powers.

 _No_ , you say firmly, before he can get any ideas – and, more importantly, before the Eye can decide that Loki needs to be taught a lesson in the proper use of temporal mechanics. You can just imagine what might happen if Loki suddenly turns up in the Cretaceous period.

Loki give you a vaguely disappointed look, but thankfully moves on. Departure in two minutes, he tells you.

Which of course just barely gives you time to scribble a quick note to Wong about where you've gone and little else. You greatly suspect that Loki enjoys keeping you off balance. Then again, he seems to enjoy keeping everyone off balance.

The Bifrost, in your professional opinion, looks like a sparkly rainbow. You half expect to see unicorns gallivanting around as you follow your Asgardian guides through the patterns of light, but when you mention this Thor just tilts his head in confusion and Loki nearly loses the ability to speak from laughter. He is still doubled over when your group materializes, and you grumble a little to yourself. It wasn't that odd of a question.

 _Keep telling yourself that, Doctor,_ Loki chuckles.

You decide to ignore him. While he recovers, you take stock of your surroundings and discover that the Bifrost originates from a building, surprisingly enough. There is a large, round, and complicated-looking machine with a spire off one end, which is spinning at a rapid velocity though it seems to be slowing down. Everything is gold, or at least gold-colored. In the center of the room is a dais, and on the dais stands a dark-skinned man with startlingly golden eyes and the largest sword you have ever seen. A memory flashes through your mind, and you quickly sketch a deferential bow; Heimdall, as you have identified the man, is not one to suffer fools. Given that you have already managed to receive a Glare from him once before, you are not keen to push his temper any further.

Surprisingly though, Heidmdall does not pay much attention to any of you – not even Loki, which confuses you since you were under the impression that Loki was currently an enemy of just about everyone. Instead, he simply looks at the three of you with eyes that linger just a little too long for comfort and says, _She is here. Hurry._

Loki stops laughing like a switch has been thrown. Anything you might have said in response is cut off when the whole building shakes with a jarring BOOM, and suddenly Thor is sprinting out the door with Loki at his heels.

You take a deep breath. You feed magic to your Cloak, which ripples at the edges and lifts you into the air. More magic goes to the Eye, enough to keep it open but nothing that will run a spell, not yet. You briefly debate the idea of summoning Lycaon, but decide to wait and see if he will be necessary. After all, you are planning on using the Eye if need be and you have not tried running both your familiar and an Infinity Stone at the same time yet. Vast though your core is, the middle of a life-threatening battle is not the best place to test new and particularly-power-intensive ideas.

 _Here we go_ _again,_ you mutter to yourself and your relics.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and the fact that you can apply the word 'again' to a life-or-death situation makes you very concerned.

* * *

 **So... um... hi there, guys... It's, uh... it's been a while.**

 **I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY! I really didn't mean for this to happen! See, I graduated, which means that now I actually have to, like, get a job and things and do, you know, 'adulting' stuff. Problem is that I don't have the slightest idea how to adult, and so I've been spending the past couple months trying to figure out how to get a job. I haven't succeeded yet... but I'm stubborn, so wish me luck.**

 **Also, I had a little bit of writer's block. But I fixed it. And I promise that there will not be another two-month break again. I said this was gonna be a Friday-updating story and I meant it. But geez, life** _ **loves**_ **to get in the way of stuff like that.**

 **Won't happen again. Author's Honor.**

 **Changeling.**

* * *

Thanks to shir0ch4n, Paderz, Shabondy, and Thrudhvangr for Favoriting/Following!


	24. Chapter 24

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are confused.

Somehow, when you were told Hela was invading Asgard, you expected to see more of an... invasion. This, however, is just empty.

Eerily so.

Thor and Loki have already sprinted off into the city, and you take a moment to cast your locator spell again, on Thor this time since you have already been acquainted with his hammer and the energy it puts off. The fact that Loki's signature energy makes you nervous has nothing to do with your decision. Nothing at all. Besides, Thor is far more likely to go straight for Hela while Loki will probably lurk in the background and wait for a chance to strike, which means that Thor is a much more competent method of finding Hela immediately.

Which you need to do, because you have no idea how to navigate Asgard and would be entirely, utterly lost if not for the crackling white lightning-esque trail leading off through the empty buildings.

It makes sense, you think, as you take off following it, that Thor would give off power similar to electricity. In a blatant, in-your-face sort of way.

Asgard is beautiful, from what little you see of it as you dart through. The buildings almost glitter in the sunlight and the architecture, if nothing else, is impressively tall. You can tell that it is a striking city when the people are around.

The silence is disturbing.

There should be an invasion, you think. Heimdall said so, and if Heimdall of all people tells you something, then it is true. Hela, by all intents and purposes, should have invaded. Already has invaded.

So where is she?

You have been flying with the Cloak, because it is by far the fastest mode of transportation you have, and so when the relic suddenly jerks you to a halt and rockets you several dozen feet into the air instead, it takes you by considerable surprise – not to mention a brief lack of oxygen. Below, where you previously were just a moment ago, a wave-blast of angry golden magic shrieks across the ground and all but demolishes the buildings you were offhandedly admiring not ten seconds ago. Entire houses crash to the ground in a cacophony of noise and dust, and the Cloak pulls you up a bit higher in what you can only assume is nervous protection.

A second wave of gold blasts through the already destroyed area, and this time you see it coming. From your aerial vantage point, you can see that it is more of a radial pulse than a singularly-directed wave. More importantly, you can see where it is coming from.

The fact that Thor's trail of power leads to the same place is... concerning.

You are not the best at tactics, despite your intelligence – your knowledge is not at all suited for the several-steps-ahead thought process needed for such a thing. However, given what you know of the situation... you decide that you will be approaching subtly. The less chance there is of you getting caught in this kind of crossfire, the better. Yes, you can do magic, and yes, you are fairly skilled at it. But you have a more subtle and skill-focused ability, whereas people like Thor and the opponents he fights can only be described as heavy hitters.

More bluntly put, Thor fights with a magical hammer than discharges actual lightning. You, on the other hand, have spells crafted mostly for defense and a relic that, while useful, is mainly for evasion.

There's a fairly significant difference.

You remain several feet in the air, partly because you don't know if there will be another pulse like before, and partly because your Cloak is being anxious and refusing to let you descend lower than twelve feet from the ground. You decide not to waste your breath arguing with it, mostly because you never win but also because you don't have time. So you steer yourself slowly until your comrades come into view, then drift as quietly as you can back to the ground and approach the rest of the way on foot. You have no interest in being shot out of the sky.

Hela... is not quite what you expected.

She is Lady Death, literally able to hold a lifespan in the palm of her hand... and she looks like a depressed emo. Her hair is long, black, and hanging over her face like a malevolent curtain, and her face is pinched and sallow, like she forgot to eat for several weeks in a row. You suppose, in a metaphorical sense, she looks like death. But Death, with a capital 'D'... you don't quite see it.

But then Thor throws his hammer at her and she catches it with one hand. You are not an expert on Asgard or anything of the sort, but even you have come across a book or two on the place and you are almost positive that Hela should not be able to do that. Thor's hammer is Thor's hammer for a reason, and as far as you are aware, he's the only one who can hold it.

Already, you have decided that this situation is all sorts of Not Good – and then Hela gives a grim little smile, tightens her grip-

And Thor's hammer shatters.

The explosion blows the god of thunder back, over the ranks of stunned Asgardian warriors, past the piles of rubble that Hela's earlier explosions created, past even you, standing behind one of the few odd pillars that somehow managed to stay intact before skidding to a halt against a sharp pile of debris. The look on his face speaks of a man who has just had his entire worldview upended, and it is made all the more severe by the fact that he simply sits there, making no move to get up. It seems as though all his processing ability has got up and left.

And naturally, Loki is nowhere to be seen and Hela has now intimidated Asgard's fighting force just a bit too much for them to effectively oppose her – though, given that she did just hold and break their greatest warrior's supposedly unbreakable weapon, you can understand their reaction. But now, much to your dismay, you seem to be the only active participant in Hela's opposition.

You take exactly one second to viciously curse your luck inside your head before lunging forwards to drag Thor out of sight so you can afford the time to snap him out of whatever he's in. Your inner doctor throws out a list of possible afflictions, but you immediately narrow it down to shock, both physical and emotional. There's not much you can do for the emotional side, but you can at least make the man lie down and warm up the air around his body as a makeshift shock blanket.

You would lend him your Cloak, but... well, in addition to currently needing it yourself, the Cloak would object fiercely to being given to someone else. One thing you have noticed in your time being the unofficially official Master of the New York Sanctum is that relics, once they choose a wielder, are unwaveringly loyal. In the case of the mobile ones, they won't even so much as touch another sorcerer.

So, no, warming the air is definitely the best option in this case.

But, you still need to do something about Hela, so you check to make sure that Thor will be hidden from her sight while he hopefully recovers before steeling yourself and venturing out into the open, where you merge with the crowd of nervous Asgardian soldiers and slowly work your way close. Hela, from what you can hear, is going on a monologue about her unfair childhood and some sort of unequal worshipper population, which is a bit confusing. You can't imagine that the generic Asgard warrior particularly cares about this, but then you catch a glimpse of Loki standing stoically and listening as though it's the most interesting thing in the world and it makes more sense.

Then, suddenly, Hela stops herself mid-monologue and says, _I do so admire your effort, Loki Laufeyson, but you're going to have to work a little harder than that._

 _Can't blame me for trying,_ Loki replies, with a crooked little smirk on his face, and suddenly there is a staff in one hand and a dagger in the other and he and Hela are locked in a rapid-fire hand-to-weapon combat. You have a feeling that, if Loki had a bit more attention to spare, he would be complaining about Hela's completely unfair ability to catch his dagger blade-first and not be harmed in the slightest.

The Cloak tugs at your collarbone, pulling you towards the pair of struggling Asgardians, and you give it an incredulous look.

 _Really?_ You say. _Of all the things I could – really?_

The Cloak, however, is insistent, and when the Eye slides open to flash at you in tandem, there's really nothing else to do about it. May the Vishanti save you from opinionated relics. You let out a sigh.

 _Well then,_ you mutter, _let's see how this goes_.

You spark your shields into existence over your fisted hands and slide into the fight alongside Loki just in time to take a hit that would have otherwise been tricky for him to dodge. Immediately, you can tell that you are more-or-less completely out of your league. Physical combat has never been your specialty: there is a reason that Mordo defeated you in every single spar that the two of you ever had. Your brain simply doesn't connect the actions of punch-kick-dodge in the way that it connects spell-shields-relic. Magic, for you, is instinctive. Physical combat is not.

But then, that is why you are fighting two-against-one. With any luck, Loki will cover for you. You do not doubt that he can, but whether or not he actually will is another issue entirely.

But then he darts forward and diffuses an energy blast with his staff that was otherwise aimed for your head, and you safely conclude that Loki values you more alive than anything else at the moment.

Fighting Hela is unlike anything else you have ever done. She moves in odd angles and sharp motions, striking at unexpected times and from directions that make no real sense but are all the more deadly for it. She deflects Loki's blade with nothing but her bare hands, yet never once do you see her bleed. When you snag her wrist with a cord-of-threads and move to dislocate her shoulder, she only notices long enough to flex and pop it back in. At one point you summon Lycaon just to try something different, only for Hela to swipe her hand through the familiar's body and dissipate him entirely.

She smiles, and it sends chills through over your skin. There is something unnatural about her.

 _It's going to take a lot more than that_ , she says, _if you boys want to have any chance of killing Death herself._

You are not a man who curses lightly, but you have no qualms about a few expletives in a situation such as this. Loki somehow thinks he has time to chide you for your language, which you disagree with emphatically but cannot afford to say aloud.

And then Thor appears, looking still-stunned and not at all like he is in good condition for a fight, but he brushes both you and Loki aside when you try and object to his presence – literally. His hammer may be broken but he is still the god of thunder, and he has all the strength that goes with such an illustrious title. You skid back by several feet, and the Cloak lifts you up a little to prevent you from falling over with the momentum of it.

Thor is now going hand-to-hand with Hela with everything he has... and Hela just looks amused. If she can catch and break Mjolnir one hand, the difference between that hammer and Thor's punch must be laughable in her eyes. What's worse is that Thor seems to have taken the loss of his weapon personally, and every time you try and assist he blocks you and pushes you back. Then Loki seizes your elbow and drags you away, saying, _He gets like this sometimes, the idiot. We'll just have to wait it out._

That, you protest, is an extremely stupid idea, because Thor is literally fighting Lady Death herself and that automatically means that he is either going to lose terribly or get forcibly 'recruited' into her army. Loki rolls his eyes in what almost looks like commiseration. He knows that, he tells you, but his brother is a stubborn, pig-headed, obstinate buffoon who gets an idea in his head and then runs with it, and there are very few forces in the Nine Realms that can make him stop. None of those forces are here right now.

Much to your dismay, you can suddenly understand why Loki might have been just a bit irritated with his adoptive family.

A sudden explosive and pulse of energy brings your attention back to the fight, just in time for you to see the last vestiges of what looks to be one of Hela's magical attacks. Thor is slammed back against a pile of rubble and hits his head in a way that makes your inner neurosurgeon cringe at the possible damage. He blinks blearily as Hela saunters over to him and leans down, her dark hair pooling on his armor.

The silence is deafening.

 _You know,_ she says, thoughtfully, _I don't think I'll kill you just yet. You amuse me. I think I'll save you for later instead._

And just like that, Thor vanishes. At your elbow, Loki tenses and breathes out an expletive. You are tempted to scold him for his language, just to return the favor from earlier, but at the moment you can only find yourself agreeing with him.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and everything just got so much worse.

* * *

 **Well... it wasn't a two-month break! It was just a month-and-a-half!**

 **...Shut up.**

 **Anyways, my reasoning for the delay this time: I had this whole chapter planned out, I knew exactly where I was going with it, and I was plugging away at it one day when I realized, 'I don't know what Hela's minions look like'. So then I went and watched every single trailer of Thor: Ragnarok that I could find, and HELA DOESN'T EVEN FREAKING** **HAVE** **MINIONS. I've got, like, half a chapter here based entirely off the assumption that Hela's descended with an army, and now I've suddenly discovered that she doesn't even bother with having an army! She just goes all gold-glowy-explody and does the job herself!**

 **So, after that I got very disillusioned with being productive for a while because I had to rework my entire plot-line for this chapter and having to re-do all that progress was depressing. But I think I've got that fixed, and hopefully things will run along on a not-quite-as-bad schedule now.**

 **(At this point, though, I think I should probably stick a disclaimer on that statement.)**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to DeyaRedfield, Scorpio's Corpse, TheFortune, and DeedBot for Favoriting/Following!**


	25. Chapter 25

Your name is Stephen Strange, and despite what Loki may think, tactical retreats are not dishonorable if they mean that you will live to try again on some other day. In your opinion, anything that can take out a god with little to no effort is very firmly Out Of Your League, and you should put as much distance between yourself and it as possible.

Hela, after all, does not seem like the type of person that you can annoy into submission with unending loops of Time. Not to mention that the Eye will do its level best to smack you if you try. Messing with Time, it has informed you via vehement flashing and several pointed rewinds, is reserved for world-ending emergencies only, and the world had better be literally ending around you before the Eye will let you use it in that way again.

And yes, there is in fact a very significant difference between time and Time. Namely, that manipulating time is readily available in your repertoire, albeit at a high magical cost, whereas manipulating Time is... well.

It's complicated.

But, since Hela is not, in fact, literally ending the world around you and thus not justifying the use of Time manipulation, your next best option is a tactical retreat. No, that's not an alternative name for running away. Shut up, Loki.

It takes longer than you would like to achieve what you decide to be a safe distance. Asgard's army did not take Thor's disappearance lightly, and even though the numbers are several thousand to one, Hela was winning and doing it handily the last time you checked, which was all of ten minutes ago. Still, it should be enough to keep her occupied even if it won't last long.

You turn to Loki, who has finally seen fit to stop teasing you about your tactical decisions and say, _Can you track your brother?_

 _Can't you?_ Loki returns.

Yes... but also no. You have Thor's signature, and you know his power; it's how you tracked him to Hela, after all. But trying to find him now just results in the trail fizzling off into confused wisps. Wherever Thor is now, he doesn't seem to be within your ability to find him.

And given the size of your available magic reservoir, that really says something.

Loki lets out a sigh that is actually more worried than it is irritated and, much to your surprise, proceeds to actually get down to business. With Thor gone, he says, Asgard is more or less entirely vulnerable in the face of an opponent like Hela. Odin is still missing and who knows where he might be. Frigga is dead and Heimdall will not and cannot leave the Bifrost Gate unless there is quite literally nothing else to be done. Asgard does hold a substantial number of warriors, but only a few are in the top tier that Hela resides in and right now Loki appears to be the only one available. This in itself is a problem because Loki's skillset is focused on misdirection, illusion, and magic, while Hela is Death Incarnate and as such can see through such paltry phantoms like they are vapor. Death, after all, cannot be fooled and cannot be escaped.

 _In other words,_ Loki says, _welcome to the Asgardian army, Doctor Strange._

You sputter. Did Loki just draft you? And what even makes him think that your own skill set is any better?

Loki lets out an aggrieved sigh, the kind that says 'I'm surrounded by idiots', and you automatically bristle at being included in 'idiots'. There are approximately four people whom you will accept being called an idiot by, and two of them are your relics.

The others are Wong, who has been calling you an idiot in one way or another since day one and is unlikely to stop anytime soon; and Christine, who quite frankly deserves to be able to call you an idiot and much worse if she feels like it, even though she probably never will.

Loki is not on that list. However, Loki also does not seem to care. In fact, he simply ignores your protests entirely, grabs you by the collar of your tunic, and all but drags you behind a pile of rubble right as another pulse of golden energy tears across the ground. Stop wasting your breath, he tells you. Save it for the main problem.

How, you demand, is this possibly not the main problem?

Loki looks at you square in the face. Quietly, seriously, he asks, _Where do you think more of the dead reside? Asgard, or your Earth?_

The implications hit you like a slap. Asgard is huge, yes, but it is only a city. Earth is a planet. A vast, massive planet where the number of the dead outweigh the number of the living by the millions, and if Hela decides to use it...

 _She won't stay in Asgard forever,_ Loki says. _Quite frankly, Asgard has already fallen. Midgard, on the other hand, she hasn't touched. Yet._

You frown, then deepen the expression into a scowl. _The barrier_ , you say. _The one you tampered with-_

 _Fortified, thank you,_ Loki interrupts.

 _-when we first met_ , you continue, pointedly ignoring your amused companion. _Can that keep her out? Is that why you were there that day?_

Loki tilts his head, considering. It could, he allows. The barrier is designed to guard against extra-dimensional beings, and Hela definitely hails from a separate plane of reality. But the power required to keep out something like Death would be astronomical.

You nod absently as your mind races. If you were to gather all the magic-users of the world, everyone who practiced the Mystic Arts in some form or another, and if everyone were to funnel their power into the shield... would it be enough? Loki looks thoughtful and thinks it might be, but you want to gather Wong's opinion on the subject just in case Loki is being... well, Loki.

His name is the god of mischief for a reason, you are not going to simply trust him on word of mouth alone.

The Cloak raises you into the air and you speed as fast as you dare back to the Bifrost Gate, with Loki sprinting along the ground behind you. Heimdall says nothing as the two of you make a beeline for the passage to Midgard; aside from activating the device, he does nothing at all. Only when you are already slipping away does he say, _I will hold her here for as long as I can._

And then Heimdall, and Asgard, are gone.

* * *

The Bifrost conveniently deposits you and Loki on the street right outside the door to the New York Sanctum and you waste no time in barging straight through the doors and yelling out for Wong. Your fellow sorcerer materializes from around a corner with his mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression already fixed on his face. What, he snaps, could possibly be so incredibly important that you need to yell in the middle of a lesson!?

You pause. You blink. _We teach lessons now?_ You ask.

Wong glares. The Sanctums, he informs you pointedly, are picking up the Ancient One's remaining students since she is no longer around to teach them. And Wong is currently in the middle of teaching the beginners how to access their magic and he is very annoyed at being interrupted. So what, he repeats, could possibly be so important?

It takes you a good five minutes to explain the entire problem to Wong, but once you do he is considerably more understanding. He also thinks that your idea is going to get the entire population of Earth-based sorcerers killed. But better the portion of the world's people, he admits, than all the world's people.

 _I'll get in touch with the Masters of the other Sanctums,_ Wong says. He eyes you, then adds, _And in the meantime, you're going to get yourself something to eat. You look terrible._

You open your mouth, intending to protest that this is not the time for something like food, but then Wong fixes you with a pointed stare and what you actually end up saying is, _Sounds like a plan_.

You sweep off to the kitchen in what you hope is a dramatic fashion and studiously ignore Loki's trailing snickers.

* * *

You are too tired and too stressed to even consider trying to make anything complex, so you dig some thick white bread out of a cupboard and scavenge an assortment of cheese from the fridge, and leave the Cloak to shred it all while you let the Eye determine how long you should leave the bread on the griddle before it starts to burn. The Cloak only ends up shredding some of the cheeses, which you take to mean that those are the ones that will taste good together and dump it all in one large mess on the bread slices. The end result is some highly un-aesthetic but very tasty grilled cheeses, which you slide onto a platter between you and Loki and eat with only part of your attention actually on eating. The other parts of your attention are being devoted to processing everything that just happened, and trying to stay awake, because you have not slept in at least a day if not more and in the wake of your adrenalin, your exhaustion is crashing down on you in its place.

You shake it off determinedly; there will be time to rest after the threat of Hela has passed. You also make a mental note to not, under any circumstances, let Wong see how tired you are, because he will bench you without another thought if he catches wind of your condition.

Maybe you really would be good at this whole Sorcerer Supreme stuff, you think to yourself. You've already got the stubborn need to sacrifice yourself for others down pat.

Loki has eaten his share of the grilled cheeses in dubious silence, although he has stopped giving his food such a wary look now that he has learned of it's flavor. Now that both of you are finished eating, he stands up and says, _We should go_.

You follow him out of the kitchen willingly enough, though you do insist on stopping and letting Wong know where you are going. He is in the middle of arguing through a gateway, but he pauses long enough to wave his acknowledgement at you before getting right back to it. From the sound of things, the other Masters are having issues accepting the validity of the threat when all the information is currently coming from the god of lies.

It's a valid thing to take issue with, you admit as you carve your own gateway to the only site you know of where the barrier is generated. You really should look into the locations of the other three, you think to yourself.

You step through the gate and Loki follows on your heels, and while the sparking vortex closes behind you, Loki strides up to the barrier's source and looks at it critically.

 _...It will do_ , he decides. He beckons you over and points out the places where sorcerers can feed their magic to the source, and you pay close attention with the intent to go over it later with Wong to make sure it's actually correct. Wong himself shows up only a few minutes later with several initiates in tow, having apparently found a way to counter Loki's involvement that satisfied the other Sanctum Masters, and he quickly takes charge. The plan, he says, is to take it in shifts. Unless Hela launches a direct assault, at which point it becomes all-hands-on-deck, there is no reason to exhaust every sorcerer right off the bat. The first shift, he adds, giving you a direct, disapproving stare, does not include you. You, he continues, are going to portal yourself right back to the New York Sanctum and you are going to rest.

You send a glare at Loki and demand, _Did you tell him?_ Loki just looks smugly amused.

Loki, Wong says, did not tell him anything. The dark-as-night bags under your eyes, on the other hand, told him everything.

 _Stephen_ , he continues, a bit softer now, _you can't run yourself ragged every time the world tries to end. It's not healthy._ Then his face and voice sharpen like a knife, and he says, _Now go put yourself to bed before I knock you out and do it myself._

Your name is Stephen Strange, and even you know better than to argue with Wong when he sounds like that.

* * *

 **The problem with trying to follow possible Thor:Ragnarok canon is that it's mostly going to revolve around Thor, and I'm not writing Thor.**

 **...It's a lot harder than I thought.**

 **But, with any luck, I can get to where I'm going with minimal issue. I think I've hit on a plot point that will let me have a lot of fun in the future, so look forward to that.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to athousandroses and Milly the Dragon for Favoriting/Following!**


	26. Chapter 26

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you have run yourself ragged.

Granted, you are not the only one. You could walk into Kamar-Taj and blend in completely, because every other sorcerer on the planet is just as tired as you are. And it does not look like you will be getting any rest anytime soon.

Hela has launched her invasion, has been launching her invasion for several weeks now, and only the barrier that protects the planet is standing in her way. Much as the sorcerer community is loathe to admit it, Loki's assistance and information has been invaluable in keeping Lady Death from breaking through, and he has even begun to make some friends among the newer, less experienced initiates.

Despite what he thinks, you are not one of these people. You will readily admit that Loki has been a competent ally; you will not, however, believe that he is involving himself in these events entirely out of the goodness of his heart.

However, he has not made his move yet, and until he does you have far too much to focus on than what Loki may or may not do at some undetermined point in the future.

You stride down the hallway of the New York Sanctum as steadily as you can, making your way towards the Gateway Hub which will lead you to the barrier guard. In light of the danger to the planet, the usually-hidden location of the barrier has been mostly thrown out a window by way of a temporarily-permanent portal in every Sanctum. After a close call involving an uninformed initiate and a near-collapse of both the barrier and the exhausted sorcerer who was sustaining it at the time, it had been generally decided that continued existence outweighed continued secrecy.

You pass Wong on your way out, who is heading in the opposite direction, and he sends you a displeased look that is mostly lost due to the exhaustion that he can't get rid of. He disapproves of your determination to volunteer as much as you do, and if he had his way, he would gladly be dragging you behind him at this very moment to lock you in your bedroom until you get some sleep.

 _You give too much, Stephen_ , he grumbles at you.

 _Better than too little,_ you reply. Wong glares at you, but he knows your past and your position on this point and, miraculously, lets it go. You mark this moment as one of the four wins against Wong that you have ever achieved, ever, and steadfastly ignore the fact that the only reason you have won this time is because Wong did not pursue the topic.

The sorcerer you are relieving is vaguely familiar, but only in the way that you know you have traded off with her before. She gives you a tiny, exhausted smirk as you switch places; then you slip your hands onto the Focus and all your concentration sharpens onto that one point as the world blurs around you.

The barrier comes into focus under the extra sense that is your magic, and you can feel the battering of Hela's forces against the outside. Telltale wisps of your fellow sorcerers from the other Sanctums are woven through the force field and they welcome you with something like relief. You have – quite accidentally – made a name for yourself as being a more-or-less unlimited magical tank after the memorable incident when you supported New York's portion of the barrier for a week straight before Wong noticed that you hadn't traded off with anyone and frog-marched you away.

You are beginning to suspect that you may have a martyr complex. You make a mental note to avoid letting Wong know at all costs; he has enough reasons to give you his Disapproving Glare already.

Reinforcing the barrier is one of those tasks that is mindless, at least until the strain kicks in. The barrier is one of the few magical constructs you have encountered that is actually greedier than the Eye of Agamotto, and as such it was always only a matter of time before your power became drained. One of the problems, you have discovered, with having the reserve size that you do, is that once it is depleted, restoring it takes an unusually long time. And with the constant trade-offs to keep Hela out... well, you have not had time to fully recover.

Then again, neither has anyone else.

This has been your life for the past few weeks. And it continues to be your life for the next one.

At least, until Thor randomly crashes a spaceship into the Hudson river with a gamma-irradiated scientist in tow and proceeds to, with bewildering efficiency given their last confrontation, fight and lure Hela into the range of the Bifrost which slams down and takes both of them off the face of the planet.

The whole thing takes about ten minutes.

 _...What just happened?_ You ask, somewhat plaintively. In your defense, you have been running on mostly-fumes for weeks now and your brainpower is just a little bit muddled. You are having trouble processing.

Wong appears next to you and glares up at the sky. _This_ , he grumbles, _is why we don't like self-proclaimed deities._

Then he bustles off, presumable to organize a Relief and Recovery effort to take advantage of Hela's sudden absence.

The scientist approaches you at some point, fiddling with his hands like he does not know what to do with them. A nervous tic, you observe. He has curly salt-and-pepper hair and is wearing clothes that do not quite fit – and he knows your name.

 _I thought you were a surgeon?_ He says, confused.

It clicks in your head, then, who this man is. Doctor Bruce Banner, of the scientific field, and an unparalleled expert in the matters of radiation and gamma waves. And occasionally, the undisputed heavy-hitter of the Avengers.

For some unfathomable reason, the only thing your tired brain can come up with upon meeting the man who doubles as the Hulk is that you expected him to be wearing purple.

You shake the thought aside and slowly explain your career change to Doctor Banner. Then you turn the conversation back around and ask, _What were you doing on Thor's spaceship?_

Doctor Banner gives you a sheepish smile, the kind that says that he really has no idea what happened. It all just sort of... escalated, he tells you, before giving you a quick summary of a gladiator ring in space, of all things.

Before you can respond to that, though, the Bifrost slams back down to Earth again and deposits Thor and Hela in your midst. Neither Asgardian seems inclined to notice this, as they are locked together in what looks like a mutually painful grapple. Your brain picks this exact moment to notice that Thor has received a haircut at some point since the last time you saw him, and that he appears to be missing an eye if the blackened and indented eyelid means anything. At almost the same time, Loki appears in a flash of green before hefting an elaborate staff in one hand and joining the fray, and Doctor Banner just sighs.

 _Can I ask you to hold my shirt?_ He asks.

You take the garment somewhat absently and begin to automatically fold it into a neat square, while Doctor Banner takes a concentrated breath and spontaneously morphs into a green rage monster, who then lets out a roar to rival Godzilla and proceeds to punch Hela straight through a bus, two billboards, a skyscraper, another skyscraper, three more billboards, a traffic light, and several dozen feet of pavement before the now-speck-sized Death goddess comes to a halt in the far-off distance. Your fellow sorcerers take one look at this carnage and promptly – and wisely, you think to yourself – scatter. Thor and Loki both give the Hulk identical annoyed stares, and the Hulk just lets out a grunt.

 _Puny Death-lady_ , he says.

Hela is still off in the distance, although you have no doubt she is recovering. So, you take the brief opportunity you have, march over to Thor, and demand to know what exactly is going on here, and make it fast because you aren't sure how much longer Hela is going to be away.

Thor shrugs at you. Hulk, he says, has something fancy in his blood which makes him the only creature capable of actually hitting and hurting Hela, which they discovered in a gladiator ring in space. Now Thor has bribed the Hulk to help him defeat Hela and subsequently prevent Ragnarok by promising lots of Smashing on a varying number of opponents, depending on how much abuse Hela can tank.

You blink. You very much want to point out how much sense that does not make. However, you refrain because your own victories have resulted from strategies that were not much better.

 _So what's the plan_? You ask instead, summoning Lycaon and sliding into formation alongside Thor. The Asgardian gives you a surprised, but grateful glance.

 _Do anything and everything in your power to make Hela stand still long enough for the Hulk to smash her_ , he says. The Hulk lets out a roar of approval.

Then he leaps – literally one leap – into the air, lands on top of the little Hela-smudge in the distance, and then the whole thing craters beneath him and both he and the death goddess vanish from sight.

This is basically what the entire rest of the fight consists of. In fact, most of the time, you are on more damage control than you are on actual damage. The Eye is a lifesaver for this type of thing, though it outright refuses to let you rewind the time on any area larger than a building. Which makes sense, given that you literally just came off your barrier shift and are more-or-less exhausted.

Lycaon dances around the edge of the battle and essentially acts as a herder, manipulating Hela into Hulk's path when she would have otherwise dodged. Maintaining your familiar at the same time that you run the Eye is not the easiest thing, and you will have to deconstruct him at some point; for now, though, Hulk seems to like having a 'glowing dog' who can't actually be smashed by a wayward fist or thrown semi truck.

The actual moment that the battle ends passes over your head entirely; you are in the middle of rewinding and reconstructing what used to be a road when you suddenly realize that the noise of the fight has ceased and you can no longer feel the pull of Lycaon on your magic. You quickly repair the road and deactivate the Eye before rejoining the Asgardians. Hulk has a bedraggled-looking Hela pinned between his hand and the ground, and she looks just weary enough to be unable to struggle out of it.

A confused frown creeps across your face. Compared to everything else, this defeat almost seemed... easy. Your common sense is insisting that there should be a second phase, or sudden reinforcements, or a random and entirely unexpected meteor from the sky which will somehow grant Hela a power-up, or something.

Instead, Loki reaches down and pries Hela out of Hulks grip, ignoring the threatening snarl of the green giant as he does, and says, _I think you and I need to have a talk_.

Hela sneers at him. Hulk eyes Loki irritably, then lets out a bellowing snort and stalks off to presumably transform back into Doctor Banner in peace, if the peach-colored tint creeping across his shoulders is anything to judge by. Thor just moves to grip Hela's other arm.

And that is exactly when the something else your common sense was waiting for happens. Because Loki suddenly grins in a way that is all teeth and trickery and hardly any humor. One hand flashes green while the other pulls Hela in close, and as Thor yells in startled outrage, the pair of them simply vanish.

A faint chuckle lingers in the air.

Slowly, you say, _Did he just use us to get to Hela?_

Thor looks like he wants to kill something. He takes a deep, deep breath, calmly tells you that he will be back eventually and to please not wait for him, he will find you. Then he calls down the Bifrost and, just like his brother, disappears into thin air.

You stand and process for a moment.

At some point, Doctor Banner emerges from behind a charred and smoking bus and quietly asks if you still have his shirt. You hand the garment over without a word, still focused on understanding the events of the past few hours. Doctor Banner pulls on his clothing, then looks around and lets out a resigned sigh.

 _Thor just left, didn't he?_ He asks. _Sorry about this, but can I crash at your place for the night? Thor was kinda my ride._

Your name is Stephen Strange, and on top of what may or may not be the next universal crisis, the Hulk is now your temporary roommate.

* * *

 **Took me a little bit, but I think I got my groove back! Apparently, writing Bruce Banner/the Hulk is an excellent trigger for my muse. Good to know.**

 **Because Ragnarok is not out yet and all I have to go on are the trailers, I am being as vague as I possibly can without sacrificing my own story quality. With any luck, they can slot in with each other eventually. If not... eh. I was running the AU train anyways.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to Naruto fan 99 for Favoriting/Following!**

* * *

 **Guest: Ooh... interesting idea. Oddly enough though, from what I can tell, the barrier around the Earth is designed solely to protect it from extra-dimensional and metaphysical threats, which, because Hela is literally Death, I'm extending to cover her. Death is more of a concept than a person anyways, I think. So I'm not actually sure that the Guardians of the Galaxy would have an issue landing the Milano... unless they're phasing in from... I dunno, the Phantom Zone or something? (Wait, no, that's DC... shoot. Well, from whatever the Marvel equivalent of that is then.)**


	27. Chapter 27

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you have no idea what time it is.

Despite the very, very, very bad reality that Loki now has Hela and all of her power at his fingertips, you were singularly unable to put up anything resembling a fight when Wong, the Cloak, and the Eye all ordered you to bed and vacuum-sealed the door behind them. Consequently, you have been asleep ever since. You can tell that you have been unconscious for several hours.

Unending weeks of stress and exertion will do that to a person.

You hesitantly test the door and find it unhindered, then make your way out and down towards the kitchen. Your confidence in your cooking skills has improved enough that you want to try eggs this time rather than your usual toast.

When you get there, however, someone else is already working.

 _Oh, hi_ , Doctor Banner says, looking up from what appears to be crepes and giving a small, self-conscious wave. He's glad you're awake – do you prefer bananas or strawberries with your chocolate sauce?

After a moment spent processing this new development, you request strawberries. Doctor Banner nods and goes to work. The next few minutes pass in silence, broken only by the soft sizzling sounds of cooking batter. Then Doctor Banner slides a plate in front of you and adds a fork, then sits down opposite of you with a plate of his own and begins eating in an almost absent-minded fashion. He keeps stopping to scribble things down on his napkin.

You take a bite of your crepes. They are ridiculously delicious.

You wonder if you can convince Doctor Banner to give you cooking lessons.

Halfway through your meal, the Cloak swoops in like a bat and wraps itself around your torso in a manner which you have come to recognize as 'irritated concern'. You heave a sigh. Yes, you are well rested, you tell your overprotective relic. You would not be awake otherwise.

The Cloak twists suspiciously before unwinding and darting off into the Sanctum. It comes back a few moments later with the Eye dangling from one of it's corners. Your second relic gives you an equally irritated and concerned once-over, and it takes much more convincing before the Eye is satisfied. Only then does the Cloak drape the Eye around your neck and take its own usual place on your shoulders.

You make a concentrated effort to look unbothered by all this and go back to eating your crepes. It doesn't work; Doctor Banner is looking at your relics with undisguised curiosity.

 _They're, uh, a bit of a handful?_ He asks.

 _You have no idea_ , you mutter in reply.

Doctor Banner hums thoughtfully, then asks, _How do they work?_

The following conversation carries well past breakfast and nearly into lunch, during which you discover that Doctor Banner ( _Oh, just call me Bruce_ ) is an incredibly smart and likable person. Not only can he match you idea for idea in SCIENCE!, but he also has no problem accepting magic or anything of the sort. And because of his connections with the Avengers, he can actually commiserate with you about the hazards of saving the world.

And he drinks tea.

You are suddenly quite sure that you want to be friends with this man.

* * *

Bruce, you decide later, must have some sort of magic. He is officially the only person you have ever seen Wong take an instant liking to, and that says a lot. You suspect that Bruce's meticulous washing of the dishes may have had something to do with Wong's fast-moving affection; however, Wong certainly won't confirm this, and the only response you get from Bruce is a bewildered stare and an awkward, self-conscious laugh.

Speaking of Bruce, he finds the entire Sanctum utterly fascinating. He spends the entire day following you around as you deal with the usual daily chores, relic arguments, and enchantment maintenance. He frowns confusedly at the books with the warnings in the back and nods approvingly at the books that have been edited to fix this, spends an entire two hours examining the Chalice of Quenching (it seems to like him; it keeps serving him extraordinarily rare and expensive tea), goes off on a mathematical tangent that you barely follow when confronted with the spatial windows, and utterly forgets that he only meant to stay the one night and ends up staying for the next five.

By that point, Bruce admits to you that, maybe, he might be avoiding the Avengers. The last time he saw them, he explains, the Hulk was on a destructive rampage. Aside from the absolutely massive amount of damage he caused, both to buildings and to his teammates, he doesn't exactly trust himself to keep control anymore.

He seemed to do fairly well against Hela, you point out.

Bruce gives you a tired smile. _Thor asked_ , he explains. It's hard to resist when that happens. Plus, he was already in the middle of it and it would have been rude to do anything else.

Plus, it's peaceful here. The Other Guy hasn't so much as peeped.

You contemplate that for a moment.

Then you say, _Would you like to get off the couch and into one of the guest bedrooms?_

* * *

The next few days pass in a sort of recovery-induced haze, during which Bruce slides into Sanctum life as though he's always been there and Wong bustles about getting the Sorcerer Supreme trials back up and running. He tells you that the final test has been rescheduled for early next week. In response, you promptly shove the reminder to the back of your mind and ignore it.

Just because you accept the fact that you're a candidate, it still doesn't mean that you're entirely okay with the notion.

With that one exception, the days run into one another in an indistinguishable line – at least, until the Bifrost slams down on the street right in front of the Sanctum and deposits one god of thunder on your doorstep.

 _Stephen!_ He bellows as he all but shatters your front door in his hurried entrance. _I have need of your tracking skills once more!_

You slowly lean out from the library where you have been working (you are so very close to fixing all the books) and give Thor a blank look. You already tried tracking Loki days ago, you tell him. Wherever he is, you can't reach him.

Thor turns a bit red and shakes his head roughly. He's not here about Loki, he says. He has misplaced his teammate and can't quite remember where they lost each other.

You blink, process that for a moment, then slowly drop your head into one of your hands. _You_ _just now realized_ _that you forgot Bruce Banner?_

 _In my defense, I had several other thoughts occupying my mind_ , Thor mumbles.

You let out a sigh, then turn your head and quietly ask the Cloak if it will be willing to fetch Bruce from wherever he is at the moment. It takes a few minutes, because Bruce has a tendency to sequester himself with a book and a cup of tea and not emerge for hours on end, but eventually the Cloak returns with one corner wrapped around Bruce's arm and leading him like a horse.

Thor is understandably awkward, but Bruce just waves it off and offers the god some tea, of which Thor politely takes one sip and discreetly pours the rest into a potted plant when Bruce isn't looking. He also apologizes profusely for leaving Bruce behind the way he did, and offers to drop Bruce off at the Avengers Compound on his way back to Asgard.

At this point, you tactfully excuse yourself from the conversation so that Bruce can fully explain to his teammate why he didn't just call Tony for a ride instead and is still here in the Sanctum. After all, Thor is just in time for lunch.

You just hope you have something in your limited repertoire of edible meals that can satisfy a deity's appetite.

* * *

Through a extensive set of circumstances, the most notable of which being the Cloak adding odd spices while you aren't looking, you somehow end up serving tacos. You take three, Bruce takes five and mutters something about the Other Guy when you give him a confused look, and Thor takes twelve plus a copious amount of chips and guacamole that the Eye helped you put together.

Over the meal, the god of thunder fills you in on the situation with Loki. He has, for all intents and purposes, vanished from the face of the known universe and has taken Hela with him. This is where Thor has been for the past several days; the hunt for Loki involves all of Asgard's inhabitants. Unfortunately, the results of the manhunt have been less than impressive. Thor, between bites of taco, recommends that your fellow Sorcerers keep an eye on the alter-dimensional barrier, just in case. You make a mental note to pass the suggestion on to Wong, who is infinitely more skilled in organizing these things.

You also, tentatively, broach the subject of Thor's eye, which is now covered by a small metal disc and seems to be a permanent fixture. Thor becomes a good deal more subdued at the new conversation topic and sets down his latest taco to properly explain things to you. Asgard, he says, runs on a different timeframe than Midgard does. Several weeks can pass in the upper realms before a single day does in the lower. When he took Hela back up to Asgard, he was actually there for several hours, all of which were spent locked in battle. _Hela,_ Thor rumbles gravely, lifting his taco again, _strikes to leave permanent reminders._

He scarfs down the taco in two bites and reaches for another, and you catch Bruce's wince at Thor's manners out of the corner of your eye. _Also,_ Thor says between bites, _I forgot to ask - do_ _you happen to know of a convenient abandoned dimension where several thousand Asgardian citizens can rebuild their lives?_

You pause. And stare. And blink, as you run the question through your head and ask slowly, _Thor, are you saying what I think you're saying?_

Thor has the decency to look chagrined. He may, he says, have neglected to mention that Asgard sort of, kind of, not-at-all-on-purpose is currently a very large pile of blackened soot and ash.

You blink again. Then you pull your thoughts together and say, _I'll ask around._

Thor beams at you and claps you heartily on the back, which has the unfortunate timing of coinciding with your latest bite of taco. While you regain your breath, you hear Bruce ask how Thor used the Bifrost to get here if Asgard has been destroyed, to which Thor responds that Heimdall has managed to jury-rig the remaining wreckage into a mechanism which only fails to work sixty percent of the time. They really do need a new home base, though, because the Asgardians are currently living in a somewhat cramped side-branch on the main Asgardian bough of Yggdrasil, and it's getting a bit uncomfortable.

That's how Thor puts it, anyway.

Eventually though, the meal comes to an end and Thor takes his leave, though he elects to exit like a normal person this time rather than take the (apparently fickle) Bifrost back. He means to stop by the Avengers Compound, he explains. It has been several weeks since he was last there, and he's feeling nostalgic.

 _Tell Tony I said hi,_ Bruce says. _And feel free to drop by every once in a while. The Other Guy always settles better after a good spar with you._

Thor's grin splits his face like the Grand Canyon splits the Earth. You make another mental note: reinforce the Sanctum. A lot. And maybe split off a room dedicated to tanking a rampaging Hulk and his sparring deity partner.

And definitely, definitely relocate all the breakables.

* * *

In a shocking twist of events which actually shocks nobody, Tony Stark shows up within the next twenty-four hours and immediately inserts himself into Bruce's daily routine. Ironically, for all the noise that he tends to make and all the personality he exudes, you only realize that he is there when an unexpected explosion (and by unexpected, you mean not caused by you) sends you running into the side room that Bruce commandeered as a lab a few days ago and you find both him and Tony coughing out smoke while a small (and violently purple) fire rages happily amidst the remains of a shattered beaker.

You spend a few moments gaping before you compose yourself and say, _Explain_ , in a demanding sort of tone.

 _Too much rubidium,_ Tony coughs out, then points a finger at Bruce and says, _Write that down._

 _I already wrote it down_ , Bruce replies, sounding both resigned and irritated – at least between coughs. _I wrote it down when I told you we had too much rubidium. You're the one who decided to ignore me and do it anyway._

Tony gasps melodramatically. _But it was for science!_

Bruce just rolls his eyes and makes a subtle insinuation that Tony really should have known the reactive properties of rubidium by this point. Tony narrows his eyes and makes a blatant insinuation that Bruce is just jealous of his awesome powers of explosiveness.

You, on the other hand, press your mouth into a line, march over, and relieve the lab table of every explosive and possibly explosive substance you see. Tony attempts to stop you by appealing to your sense of camaraderie as a fellow Beard Bro, which earns him your own version of Wong's mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression. Much to your surprise, Tony actually falters for a brief moment. You make yet another mental note: to introduce him to Wong as soon as physically possible. If your feeble imitation can make him pause, you can only imagine what the genuine article will do.

Tony ends up staying for lunch just like Thor did, which means that he actually does end up meeting Wong. Naturally, because he's Tony, he gets hit with Wong's full mistreated-book/favorite apple expression within ten minutes, and he just stops talking. To Wong, that is. He still talks to Bruce like his words are runaway boxcars on the train rail of his sentences, and he says quite a few things to you as well, but he only talks to Wong when absolutely necessary. Things like, _pass the ranch dip_.

You make another mental note: get Wong to teach you how to do that.

* * *

That day establishes a pattern, where Tony Stark shows up every few days to hang with his 'Science Bro' and more often than not something explodes. In between that, you and Bruce finally finish organizing the library and getting the Sanctum in proper order after you and Kaecilius crashed it. You also begin getting lessons from Wong on how to properly maintain the place and how to take care of all your duties as the Sanctum Master; plus, Wong has informed you that Thor coming to you about the Asgardian's living situation makes it your job, and you have been spending a lot of time going over possible options lately. This, combined with your ongoing self-cooking lessons and the fact that Thor randomly showed up one day and proceeded to get the crap kicked out of himself by the Hulk makes your days unendingly busy.

And then Wong, in his usual display of utter disregard for things like timing, reminds you that the Sorcerer Supreme trials will resume tomorrow, and you promptly choke on your latest batch of soup.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you do not feel ready for this.

* * *

 **Just for all you science nerds out there: yes, rubidium does in fact burn violet (or red-violet, if you wanna get specific), and yes, it is highly reactive and produces a substantial amount of heat while doing so.**

 **Meanwhile, Bruce is now a semi-official resident of the New York Sanctum. I did this for two reasons: one, because writing Bruce makes my muse happy and encourages me to higher word counts; and two, because according to Marvel comic canon, Doctor Strange is at the very least a reserve member of the Avengers, and what better way to insert him into the mix than to have him host one of the original members?**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to La luna de sangre, Quod Vide, and FreehanderBaird10716 for Favoriting/Following!**


	28. Chapter 28

Your name is Stephen Strange, and if the full scope of the possibility of becoming Sorcerer Supreme is only just now hitting you, well, that is nobody's business but your own, thanks very much. It really doesn't help that the Cloak is trembling excitedly behind you – from the outside, it looks like the relic is picking up on and broadcasting your anxiety. Which you really didn't need. If you wanted to flash your emotional state to the world, you would take your hands out from behind your back. Your nerves are making the ever-present shaking extremely noticeable.

...Now that you think about it, maybe the Cloak isn't trembling from excitement. It might actually be trembling because you are hiding your shaking hands in it.

Well then. Today is off to a great start.

Wong is not presiding over this final test, which is good, in your opinion. Apart from everything else, today is one of the days that Tony was liable to show up, and you have learned by now that he and Bruce need someone with common sense to supervise them if you want to avoid blowing up yet another side room. Before you leave, you hand Wong a list of warning signs, phrases, and sounds that the Science Bros will likely make before something explodes, and then a secondary list of how to thwart said explosion based on which sign, phrase, or sound is being made.

Put together, the lists are about six feet long. Tony is responsible for at least five of those six feet.

Still, with Wong on the job, you leave the Sanctum with confidence that at least seventy percent of the building will still be standing by the time you return – maybe sixty, if Thor decides he wants another spar. But probably nothing that you won't be able to eventually fix.

You step through your gateway portal at the same time that your fellow candidate steps through hers. The new touches of gray in her hair tell you that she likely spent the past few weeks just as tired and stressed as you did; in fact, to your professional eye, she still looks tired. Come to think of it, almost all your fellow sorcerers have looked tired, even now, several days after the situation with Hela is resolved.

It dawns on you that your own lack of lingering exhaustion is likely due to your near-limitless power core and all the energy that comes with it. It adds another tally in the list of positive side effects from Dormammu's invasion, though there aren't many.

It also dawns on you that, just maybe, your fellow sorcerers are still on alert because Loki kidnapped Hela and is doing who-knows-what with her available power. You frown, and wonder how that did not occur to you sooner. You decide it was probably because of Thor's frequent visits, Tony's even more frequent Science! explosions, and all the hassle that comes with moving in a new roommate. No offense to Bruce.

Whatever the cause, compared to her, you look positively vibrant. You smile awkwardly at her and offer a quiet piece of advice regarding which tea you have found helps with relaxation the most; she nods in acknowledgement.

The two of you stand in slightly-uncomfortable silence. Aside from the fact that you had not met her before these trials (and in fact still do not know her name; you really ought to rectify that at some point), you two are both vying for the same position and as such, she could be considered your rival of sorts. You have never had a rival before – well, you have never had an acknowledged rival before. Plenty of people fancied themselves your rival back in your doctor days, but you had never taken any of them seriously.

Really, you have no idea how to interact with this woman.

Silence stretches. You notice that she does not seem to be nearly as uncomfortable as you are, and are irrationally jealous.

Thankfully, the overseer for the test arrives just in time to save you from having to pull up a conversation starter, and you gratefully turn your full attention to him. Then you blink in concern, because he looks even worse than your fellow candidate. If she looks tired, then your test-giver looks like he's about to drop dead on his feet.

Aside from that, though, he doesn't show his exhaustion in anything else, which is quite frankly vastly impressive. You wonder how many cups of coffee this man is running on.

He collects you both efficiently and ushers you through a new portal, bringing your little group to what looks like a pre-prepared arena, of sorts. Not exactly a regular 'arena', though, and certainly not the kind that comes to your mind when you hear the word 'arena'. Rather, it looks more like someone searched out the ideal of a wooded glade and then built an arena around it. Of course, the only reason you know this is because you can see the stone walls over the tops of the trees several dozen feet away.

Your instructor leads you to the center of the grassy area, so that the edge of trees encircles your group on all sides, then begins speaking. The object here, he says, is to test your fighting ability, both separately and as a team. The Sorcerer Supreme, among other things, is largely responsible for being the first line of defense and needs to have a good repertoire of skills and tactics in order to combat the various threats to the Earth. Spell constructs of various foes, he continues, will attack the two of you within the confines of the arena, and will continue to do so until the test is complete.

You absorb all this and groan to yourself, because if there is one thing you haven't been doing lately, it's practicing your combat magic. You've been a bit preoccupied with things like Tony Stark and corresponding explosions. This is sure to be among the less-enjoyable experiences in your life thus far.

Your overseer gives you a five-minute warning, then portals himself away to presumably preside over and judge the ensuing battle. You exchange a glance with your fellow candidate – well, teammate now, you suppose.

 _You any good at strategy?_ You ask, just to cover the bases. Your own thinking pattern has never been inclined towards the theoretical; your brain works in the here and now, where you can react in the moment. And besides, most of your good ideas come from the Cloak or the Eye nowadays anyhow.

Luckily for you, the woman nods. She glances around, eyes calculating, then declares, _They're most likely to come from the southeast. That's where the easiest access is. We'll want to set up a choke point with the heavier hitter between the two of us, and have the other pick off the stragglers._ She gives you a extendedly pointed look, lingering on your relics, and you can pick up the hint well enough.

 _Right then, I'll just stand over here,_ you say. Your teammate frowns at you in confusion.

 _What?_ She says, her brow furrowing. _No,_ _you're __the heavy hitter._

You feel profoundly embarrassed. After so many months spent training yourself out of that kind of mindset, it simply hadn't occurred to you. You, awkwardly, inform her of this. She stares at you and smiles helplessly, in the sort of way that tells you she doesn't quite believe what she's hearing.

 _You were chosen by both the Cloak of Levitation_ _and __the Eye of Agamotto,_ she says. _If_ _nothing __else, that makes you the heavy hitter._

You nod, because you have very little idea how to respond to that, and place yourself at the designated choke-point. Your partner takes up a position some ways away and sparks a spell between her fingers. She flashes you a glance, letting you know that she is ready.

A rustle in the trees is all the warning you have before a swarm of things rushes at you. There is a moment when you simply stare, caught between processing what you are seeing and actually doing something about them. For some reason, when your instructor said 'spell constructs', you were expecting human figures, or at least humanoid figures. These things look like a scorpion had offspring with a lamprey in a lake of glitter glue.

Then again, most of the threats that a Sorcerer Supreme would deal with would come from another dimension, and nothing you have seen in other dimensions has ever given you the impression that the inhabitants would be human-shaped.

With that in mind, you decide to see if Lycaon will consider these things to be edible. If not, well, he will have at least roughed them up a bit for you.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are quite certain that this final test is going to be an experience.

* * *

 **Happy Holidays, everybody. Sorry for the somewhat shorter-than-usual length, but I figured I'd kept you all waiting long enough. And hey, now I can finish planning where I want the trials to go without feeling like I'm holding chapters hostage. Win-win.**

 **Also!**

 **Based on everyone's feedback to my AN, I have elected to keep riding my AU Train and seeing where it takes me. However, I HAVE tweaked a few things just so that I'm still lining up with my source material a little bit.**

 **Nothing about my plot has changed. I'm still going where I was going. However, I have now taken note of Thor's new haircut, as well as his new... let's call it an ocular accessory. In addition, I have also taken note of Asgard's... decorating choices and incorporated that as well. (I'm being deliberately vague for those of you who haven't seen the movie yet, if you can't tell. Though really, if you're gonna read the edits then you'll find Spoilers anyway, so... *shrugs*)**

 **In regards to the location of these changes, there is a small note of Thor's new appearance in Chapter 26, in the paragraph that begins with "Before you can respond to that". The main addition is in Chapter 27, during the taco scene. Stephen asks about the... ocular accessory, and it just rolls from there. If you want to go find them to see what's different, that's where you go.**

 **Thanks a ton to everyone who gave me their opinion, and I hope you'll like where I'm going next.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to lordvaatithewindmage and ChainedGenius129 for Favoriting/Following!**


	29. Chapter 29

Your name is Stephen Strange, and this fight is actually going better than you initially thought it would.

Part of it is because of Lycaon, who tears through spell constructs like so much paper. Granted, he is a wolf, and there are only so many enemies he can attack in so much time, but the ones that he does hit are done for. Despite being made of magic, there is a certain savage vindication in his movements whenever he disembowels his latest target.

Your partner has summoned her familiar as well, the house cat-sized feline that you remember from your brief glimpse of it during the first test. Unlike your previous assumption, based off the short look you got and the information you absorbed during those few seconds, it is not actually a house cat. Instead, it looks to be some sort of jungle cat, as far as you can tell. Your partner's magic entwines in an intricate pattern of spots and streaks, and the flash of fangs and claws as the feline pounces on its victims are far too large to belong to anything so mundane as a common pet.

You make a mental note to ask her about it, once you have the time.

For your part, you are stationed firmly at the choke point, wielding a shield on one hand, a cord-of-threads in the other, and the Eye's command matrix encircling your right arm while you alternately bash and throw your opponents based on the range. Every now and then, the Cloak lifts you into the air to allow you to throw down a mass amount of portals, placed strategically in front of the spell constructs that are moving too fast to dodge, and redirecting them into each other where the force of the collision takes both foes out in one move. On the occasion when one enemy makes it past your onslaught and launches its own attack, the Eye flares to life and freezes it in its own timestream, at which point you grab the thing with your cord-of-threads and use it as your newest projectile. This is why you have the Eye's command matrix up and running; too much is happening at once for you to follow it all, and there is constantly an enemy or two slipping past your notice.

It's not your most elegant battle form, but it works. And you are not going to complain about it.

Your partner, on the other hand, is using a spell you've never seen before. This isn't anything particularly new, as you have really only been a part of the sorcerer culture for just approaching two years now, but this one catches your attention in a way that makes it impossible for you not to notice.

From both hands, extending off each one of her fingers, is a string of magic that, somehow, doesn't spark and crackle like nearly all other magic that you know of. Every movement she makes is amplified into these tendrils, and when she flicks her fingers the threads crack into each other like whips. Just watching her move in the spare moments you can tells you that not only does she know exactly what she's doing, but she's very, very good at it. Somehow the movements of her fingers translate into one of the most elaborate and impossible-to-escape traps you have ever seen. It's as though a spider dropped down and wrapped up her opponents, only the 'web' is utterly impenetrable. She disconnects the tendrils from her fingers with a flick of her wrists, then spins a small dagger into one hand and stabs the entrapped spell constructs straight through their chests.

They disintegrate instantly.

The dagger looks like a relic, but the spell? The spell is incredibly useful and you want it.

Unfortunately, now is not the time. If you ever get the chance to ask your partner about her familiar, that would be the time.

...And to ask for her name. That too. Really, how have you gone this long without learning your partner's designation?

Oh yes, there was an almost-apocalypse, that was how.

You shake your head rapidly between enemies, doing your best to clear your thoughts. Now is really not the best time. You return your full attention to the battle – and are immediately glad you did, because the spell constructs have metamorphosed when you weren't paying attention. No longer do they look like a lamprey mated with a scorpion in glitter glue; now, they more resemble what might happen if fireflies fused with whales. Not only are they much larger, but they appear to be capable of communication with one another now, using the glow of their underbelly to flash messages back and forth across the battlefield.

You also discover, as you whip your cord-of-threads at one of them, that they are much more durable now and are lacking the weak spot that you were previously taking advantage of. This will be a problem, you decide, or at the very least, time-consuming in a manner you are not currently able to manage.

You settle for blunt impacts to what looks like the head instead. And it works. It just is not quite as efficient.

It irritates you, but you channel that irritation into your blows and it all balances out.

You lose yourself in the rhythm of the fight, in a way that you are normally never able to do because normally you are not fighting spell constructs with no real life of their own and you would ordinarily need to pull your punches, so to speak. But here, there is no need for that, and so you sink into the pattern of battle until your only other focus is a vague and general awareness of where your partner is, because it would not do to accidentally use her as your next projectile.

It turns out to be a good thing, this awareness, because when she suddenly pops up right next to your arm, you most certainly do not jump like a startled rabbit and nearly throw her at the next spell construct. You simply narrowly avoid it.

 _Something's wrong!_ She shouts in your ear. _There's too many of them for this to be a normal test!_

She abruptly ducks as a glow-whale come barreling in at her head, and you quickly spin a portal in the creature's path to redirect it into another glow-whale aimed for your solar plexus. Both creatures go flying.

 _But it's meant to be challenging?_ You reply.

 _Not like this it isn't,_ she says grimly. _They've been aiming to kill. That's not supposed to happen._

She's right, you realize. An alarming number of the spell constructs – all of them, really – have been aiming for your head, or your neck, or your stomach. Nothing has made contact, because the Cloak is around your neck and is fiercely protective, and the Eye hangs above your stomach and dislikes sharing you with anything that is not the Cloak, and Lycaon is still tearing around you on the battlefield like a thing possessed. But the intent... your partner is entirely correct about the intent.

Which can mean a few things, none of them good.

One, the instructors – the sorcerer community in general – is no longer in charge of the examination, and somebody else is. Two, the sorcerer community is still in charge of the examination, but have decided to kill you and your partner for unexplained reasons. You highly doubt this one to be the case, but it is an option all the same. Three, these are the actions of a rogue individual, affiliated with the sorcerer community (they would have to be, to control the spell constructs like this), but not strictly included anymore. Or Four, the world is about to be threatened by a multidimensional supernatural being, again, and this is how said being has decided to herald its coming.

Admittedly, you really hope that last one is not the case. But then – everything stops.

Literally. Everything stops. The spell constructs freeze in place. The entire attack halts. You boggle as the constructs dissolve into thin air, and it occurs to you that something is very, **very** wrong.

 _Right then,_ you say. You and your partner ought to vacate the area immediately. Clearly, something is happening outside of the exam, and – equally clearly – that something is not good.

Your partner nods at the logic, but scowls all the same. She has left her sling ring elsewhere, having deemed it unnecessary to carry during what was supposed to be a supervised exam. You wordlessly pull your own from a pocket and spin a portal for the both of you.

If there has been anything that living through Kaecilius, Dormammu, and Loki has taught you, it is that one should never, ever be unprepared for anything even remotely conceivable and most of the inconceivable as well. Being a sorcerer tends to bring the inconceivable right to your doorstep, after all.

You step out into Kamar-Taj, because regardless of anything else, it is still more-or-less the functional center of sorcerer culture and if an invasion is going to start anywhere, it will probably be here. And you are somewhat upset to find out that you are right. Windows have been smashed, floors splintered, and doors torn clean off in what looks like the aftermath of a very intense battle. Scattered around are your fellow sorcerers, all leaning heavily on various objects or simply lying on the ruptured floor. Your inner doctor (seldom used nowadays but never gone) kicks in and notes that most of them appear to be in shock. A few are crying, in the silent way that comes from pure emotional upheaval. Some are just... blank.

Wong is there, consoling a young teen who looks like a new initiate. He glances up as you approach, and you have to brace yourself against his stare. You suddenly realize that, in all the times Wong has pinned you with a Glare, or a Stare, or a Look, he has always done so with an undercurrent of affection to it.

There is no affection right now. There is only anger and fear and shattered trust. They are not directed at you, but... these are not things you have ever seen on Wong's face before, and you hate it. Wong should not look like this.

 _Stephen_ , Wong says, and his voice is ice. _Mordo is back._

That is all he says, but it is all he needs to say. Because Wong does not waste his words on pointless statements, and if he is telling you that Mordo is back in the middle of defeated sorcerers, then there is only one reason why.

Mordo is the one responsible for this.

You flounder. You knew that Mordo's conviction had been broken by the events between Kaecilius and the Ancient One, and you knew that his kind of faith was not something easily repaired... but to do this? To take out what you can only assume is his anger and betrayal by the Ancient One on his fellow sorcerers, who had no connection to the Ancient One's actions? To take out his pain on initiates?

If these are Mordo's actions, then they are the actions of a man whom you no longer know. You cannot make the kindness and tough-love instructions of Mordo's past connect with what he has done now.

Your hands are shaking. You curl them into fists. At your side, your partner bares her teeth in a manner remarkably similar to her already-snarling familiar.

 _He can't get away with this,_ she states, fury making her tone emotionless. You agree. But before you can go after Mordo, Wong speaks up again.

 _Be careful, Stephen_ , he tells you. _Mordo is dabbling in things which he should not._

He pauses, uncharacteristically, and seems to gather strength before saying, _He is stealing magic._

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are absolutely furious.

* * *

I am so sorry.

I had... some issues deciding where to go from the last chapter, if you couldn't tell. I knew where I was trying to end up (Infinity War), I knew which threads I wanted to bring into the plot (eventual title of Sorcerer Supreme, Mordo, an 'In' with the Avengers), and I even sorta knew which order I wanted it in... I just had no idea how to go about executing it. And so I sat and struggled with Writers Block and basically just sorta stared at this story for several months trying to figure out how I could pull everything together.

I'm sure you can all guess that I figured it out, since I'm posting again. I'm not going to say where I'm going from here, because _Spoilers~_

I don't give up on stories. Not now, not ever. It may sometimes take me several months to post something, and I may drop off the face of the Earth at times, but I will _never_ abandon this.

But. I'm keeping progress reports on my Profile now. So. If I'm not making progress, uh... I dunno, yell at me or something. PM a (preferably politely worded) rant (or encouragement), help me kick my muse back into gear.

Changeling

* * *

Thanks to JKS16, Rinnala, Chaokola, Dutoc, justntyme12, StarblazeForce, Shabondy, jessiebostwick840, victoria cullen35, elendur, WhenInDoubtLeave, Strangetails, RandomFanatic0510, and FadingGrin for Favoriting/Following!


	30. Chapter 30

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are on a manhunt.

The woman at your side – her name is Elise, as it turns out – is livid. It shows in the way her fingertips spark, in the way that her feline familiar stalks at her side. She feels that Mordo has broken a sacred trust – and she is right, he has. There is an unspoken oath among the sorcerer community, that binds you all together in your greater goal of protecting the Earth. Even Kaecilius, insane and deranged though he was, believed that his actions were for the greater good of the planet.

Perhaps, Mordo believes this too. Perhaps, as his faith was shattered by the actions of the Ancient One, he came to the conclusion that sorcerers were meddling with forces that should be left untouched. Perhaps, he still wants to protect the planet, and is doing so in the only way he thinks is right.

You simply don't know. And this has tempered your own anger a bit, not knowing. There are so many different causes for Mordo's actions – to charge in and condemn him outright, without being fully aware of his reasoning... may only serve to alienate him further.

Mordo was your friend. If there is a way that he can be saved... you want to find it. But unfortunately, Mordo may not feel the same way.

Kamar-Taj becomes more and more of a mess the further you and Elise venture into it, but the concerning thing about the chaos is that it delineates a clear, recognizable path. Mordo was on a mission, it seems, and he knew exactly where he was going - and it only takes a few minutes of following his trail for you to realize that, you might, too. Because Kamar-Taj, among other things, is the only direct gateway to the three Sanctums, and if Mordo's plan is to take the magic of the sorcerers, as you have guessed it might be, then he will be making a beeline to the connecting passageways.

And this is exactly where the trail of carnage leads you. There is a fellow sorcerer on the floor, a middle-aged man with thick brown hair on his face and very little on the top of his head. He has the same, shell-shocked expression as the rest of the Kamar-Taj residents, a hand pressed to his chest in a futile attempt to reach a power that is no longer there. But he is lucid nonetheless, and looks up sharply when you and your partner approach.

 _He went that way_ , the man says, and his voice is controlled anger on a knife's edge as he points out which gateway Mordo took. It is with a sinking gut that you recognize the portal leading to the New York Sanctum, to your own home. Of course, you think bitterly to yourself. Of course Mordo would come for you next. If he has been paying any attention at all to the news of the sorcerer world - and he clearly has, to have pulled off this assault so well - then Sorcerer Supreme candidates would be among the first he would eliminate. And you, unfortunately, are one of those candidates.

Still, you frown to yourself, you are not in the New York Sanctum right now, and neither is Wong. Most initiates are intimidated by you, for some reason, so there are very few learning students in the Sanctum either. At this point in the day, unless there's been a change of plans, the only one who should be in the Sanctum right now is…

Bruce Banner.

You suddenly have a vivid mental image of the Hulk, of Mordo, and of the almost hilariously disproportionate size between them, and blanch. That confrontation can only end in one of two ways, and both will likely result in a broken house. You spark your shields, just in case of flying objects.

 _Brace yourself_ , you say to Elise, and she nods as tendrils snake from her fingertips.

You step through the gateway.

And almost immediately, you have to duck to avoid being hit square in the face. The incoming vase shatters on your shields instead of your jaw, and you take the moment of shelter to evaluate what exactly is going on.

It seems that the whole house has been weaponized, with everything that is not nailed down shooting through the air at anything deemed a threat. This, to your awareness, is not part of the normal Sanctum defenses, which likely means that Mordo is behind it. You take a brief second to marvel at the scale of power this display is revealing, because it really is quite something. More on the scale of what you might pull off, rather than what you remember Mordo being capable of.

You suppose he must be putting all that stolen power to use.

Still, for all that the Sanctum is filled with ballistic items, Mordo himself seems to be nowhere in sight. Most of the objects are drifting aimlessly; one or two appear to be targeting spiders, but aside from that the air is full of wafting books and cups and a rug or three. A few things are bumping gently against the door on the far side of the room - these are the only ones with any sort of purpose to their movements at all.

Warily, still crouched behind your shields and with Elise brandishing her fingertip-whips at anything coming too close, you make your way over to the objects clustered at the doorway and push it open. Immediately, the floating items beeline from the room and down the hall.

 _After them_ , you decide. Then you duck again, because all the other floating debris has noticed the open door and chooses that moment to barrel through the opening regardless of whether your head is in the way or not.

You take off sprinting, choosing to dissipate your shields in favor of focusing on your running. The floating house items are all moving at an impressive speed, and if you do not keep up now, you will lose them. And while you do know the Sanctum quite well, it would take far longer to search aimlessly than it would to follow these enchanted items to wherever they have been summoned to.

The trail leads you to the room where Bruce tends to spend the most of his time, and you can already feel the faint tremors of distant heavy impacts through your boots. You close your eyes heavily, preparing yourself. Maybe, maybe the Hulk has not broken everything within a hundred foot radius of himself.

You rather doubt it, to be honest, but… it is a nice thought.

With that, you re-summon your shields and push through the door.

Squarely in the center of the room, Mordo is dangling from the Hulk's fist, his face turning a concerningly unhealthy shade of purple. His eyes are wide and startled; there is a cord-of-threads manifested in his left hand, the end of which is wrapped around Hulk's neck. Hulk does not seem to have noticed this. The stream of objects from the far room have careened towards the pair and are repeatedly knocking against the Hulk's skull, which he also seems oblivious to. And strewn around the floor are the remains of what looks like literally every other small, floatable item from the rest of the house, every one of them broken beyond almost all recognition and certainly beyond enchantment.

You are not quite sure who to blame for that. You settle for blaming Mordo, because he is far less likely to punch you through three walls and a car for confronting him.

...Probably.

Beside you, Elise takes a sharp breath in and whispers, _What_ _is that_ _thing_ _?_ She is staring at the Hulk with a slack jaw, and you suddenly remember that the sorcerer community on the whole does not pay very much attention to the rest of the world if magic is not involved. The existence of the Avengers would probably be news to her.

 _My lodger,_ you reply succinctly, and with a long-suffering sigh.

There is a method to approaching the Hulk, and it mostly involves bribery. Unfortunately, everything you have to bribe with are the things that Bruce likes, and that the Hulk is less than fond of. This leaves you with…

 _Hulk_ , you say. _Put the man down._

...banking on the Hulk's good will and hoping that, maybe, he has registered you as an ally at some point during the past weeks he and Bruce have been living with you.

This is a terrible plan.

The Hulk glances over at you; Mordo makes strangled choking noises and turns an even deeper shade of purple. Hulk thinks the purple man is funny. Makes squishy noises. Good smashing partner.

Mordo, by now, has gone past purple and now just looks asphyxiated. The attacking objects falter and begin to sway haphazardly to the ground.

 _Here's an idea,_ you say quickly. _How about you let him go, and I'll call Thor instead? You always say Thor is the_ _best_ _smashing partner._

(Why didn't you start with bribing Hulk with Thor in the first place? You make a mental note about it.)

The Hulk ponders this, then grins in that almost-malicious, mostly-anticipatory way he has, and drops Mordo like a rock. Mordo collapses to the floor and wheezes.

 _Hulk wait for Thor,_ Hulk announces, then sits cross-legged with enough force to make the whole room shake. You thank him, because it is  always a good idea to be polite to the green rage giant, then grab Mordo by the tunic and unceremoniously throw him over your shoulder. You carry him out of the room with Elise trailing behind you, and a communications spell already up and sparking at your fingertips. Best not to keep the Hulk waiting when you promised him his favorite smashing partner.

 _What,_ Elise demands as you shoot a quick emergency message to the god of thunder. Unfortunately, you do not have time to explain the entirety of the nuances of the relationship you have with the Avengers right now, so you settle for waving a hand vaguely and a quick, _Long story, ask me later._

Mordo, understandably, is still recovering from nearly choking to death - which gives you plenty of time to track down the relic you used on Kaecilius and throw it at him. Watching Mordo be forced into the same awkward and frankly hilarious stance is a welcome change from the grim atmosphere of the past few hours.

Absently, you register the subtle rumble of the Bifrost crashing in, followed by the much-less subtle sounds of an enthusiastic brawl. You close the doors to the rest of the Sanctum with a wince and a mental note to at least try and catalogue the damages before Wong comes back. Then you put that thought on a back burner, and turn your attention back to Mordo.

He is glaring at both you and Elise, although Elise is glaring right back with enough vitriol that you would say she is winning. You take a deep breath and crouch down to Mordo's eye level.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you and Mordo are about to have a Talk.

* * *

 **I'm** _ **BACK**_ **, y'all.**

 **...Maybe this time it'll actually stick…**

 **Hope springs eternal. Anyways. I swear I still know where I'm going with this. The reason it took so long was that I got distracted with my other WiPs and didn't bother to make intentional time for this one. That was my bad.**

 **Prioritizing is not always my strongest ability, but I'm trying to get better. At this point I think we should all know that I can't make any promises,** _ **but!**_ **I'm gonna do my darnedest. Remember, I don't abandon stories, not now and not ever. I started this thing, I** _ **posted**_ **this thing, and I'm gonna finish this thing no matter how long it takes me.**

 **Plotwise! The Hulk did what he does best, Mordo is in entirely over his head, and Stephen gets to have a heart-to-heart with an old friend turned evil wizard. There will probably be a motive, Elise might just murder something, and who knows? I might even manage to nudge this story farther along than just a few measly inches next time.**

 **Speaking of Elise, she has a name now! I think I've just made my first OC. What a novel feeling.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to Aorana, Ruthless Hades Black, firestar4, StarWings009,lawhoncl, Culebra del Sol, GrandNinjaMasterRen, and Leel'Wen for Favoriting/Following!**


	31. Chapter 31

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are finding that getting Mordo to say something is like teasing bone fragments from a swollen frontal lobe: tedious, agonizingly slow, and almost indistinguishable from absolutely no progress at all.

You have moved from the somewhat wrecked New York Sanctum back into the (relatively) more organized Kamar-Taj. However, in the interest of keeping Mordo from being violently murdered by all the resident sorcerers who want their magic back, you have also had the discretion of barricading yourself, Mordo, Elise, and a _terrifyingly_ stoic Wong in a back room with six different layers of wards and notice-me-not spells.

Also, a paper hanging-sign saying 'Do Not Disturb', which for some reason appears to be just as important as the warding enchantments. There are some things about the sorcerer community that you will likely never quite understand.

Wong, still stoic, still terrifying, folds his arms and stares down at Mordo. His face is utterly impassive, gives nothing away, and is sure to crop up in your nightmares at some point.

 _What do you have to say for yourself?_ He asks, and you suppress a shudder at how alarmingly neutral his tone is. In your time living with and learning from Wong, you have - albeit tentatively - managed to put a scale of severity to the various levels of Wong's impassiveness. Before this, there has always been  some semblance of emotion behind your teacher's usual expressionless face. Granted, it has taken you several months and more than a few let's-never-speak-of-this-again incidents, but you feel as though you can competently recognize what Wong is feeling beneath the disinterest.

Now, though, you see nothing. This is the mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression on a whole new scale, which you had previously been unaware was even physically possible.

You are appropriately scared stiff.

How on earth Mordo is managing to not crack under this assault is baffling to you. Frowning, you lean forwards a little bit to get a better look. On closer examination, Mordo's left eyebrow is twitching at an increasingly frantic rate, and his skin is rapidly becoming progressively more shiny.

That makes more sense, you decide and lean back to your previous position. Mordo is just as intimidated as you are; he is just trying not to show it.

You give him about twenty more seconds until he breaks.

 _Well?_ Wong prompts tonelessly. You flinch; Mordo's eyebrow doubles in pace. Elise, meanwhile, seems miraculously unaffected. You eye her jealously, then notice that she is breathing very deliberately, with her eyes fixed unmovingly on some spot in the middle distance. She… appears to have dissociated, you realize with no small amount of surprise.

Wong leans in, slowly, and looks Mordo right in the eye.

Mordo, to absolutely no one's surprise, caves right then and there.

...Sort of.

 _What do you know of the Universe?_ He asks with conviction in his voice and purpose behind his words, and immediately goes off on a speech about the 'Balance of the World' and 'Natural Law' and 'the Order of things'. You immediately tune it out, because you have heard similar speeches from far too many supervillains already and you do not particularly want to hear another one from your former friend.

Then he says your name.

You snap back to the conversation to find Mordo staring right at you. His eyes drag down from your face to your chest, where the Eye is hanging half-dormant as it usually does. Mordo's face pinches with something sour, and you find yourself bringing up a hand to block the Eye from his view. At your back, the Cloak arches up a corner to do the same.

Yes, you are absolutely aware that walking around with an Infinity Stone is a stupid and dangerous idea. Yes, you absolutely agree that something so powerful should be in a vault somewhere, kept safe from all the idiots who might misuse it. (You are not so selfish anymore to think you are not at the top of that list, not after you tried to rewind an apple and nearly broke Time instead.) However, none of that matters if the Eye itself would rather be with you. And since the Eye has made it very clear, multiple times, and with multiple temporal incidents, that hanging around your neck is the only place it wants to be… well, that is where the Eye is allowed to be.

Which Mordo would know, if he hadn't run off to have an existential crisis. Unfortunately, he is too busy spitting at you about you apparent 'flaunting of the natural law' and your 'blatant disregard for the balance of the universe' to allow you to get a word in edgewise to explain it to him.

Briefly, you glance at your fellow interrogators. Elise is still dissociating; likely, she has not realized that it is safe to acknowledge the world again, since Wong has stopped his Stare. Wong, meanwhile, is still relatively impassive with the exception of a single eyebrow, which is climbing progressively higher and higher up his forehead as Mordo continues ranting.

You give a small nudge to Elise's shoulder, which has the desired effect of snapping her out of her daze. She blinks for a moment, then focuses on Mordo, then blinks again as his words register. She gives you a questioning look, most likely wondering why Mordo thinks you are upsetting the very fabric of the universe by wearing your chosen relics like any sorcerer would do.

You shrug helplessly.

 _Enough_ , Wong interrupts, and Mordo falls quiet out of what looks like pure habit. You suppose that Mordo must have spent years obeying and learning from Wong before he defected. A habit like that must be hard to break.

 _This has gone far enough,_ Wong continues. You note with no small amount of alarm that his face is entering that terrifying blankness again, and quickly focus on Mordo instead. You feel Elise grab on to your sleeve and guess that she is grounding herself against dissociating again.

(You would not blame her if she did. There is a reason that Wong was second only to the Ancient One.)

Wong gives Mordo an ultimatum: return the magic he stole, turn himself in, and maybe Wong will be able to lighten his sentence to a lifetime of community service rather than the usual punishment for renegade sorcerers.

The usual punishment, for those who are un-redeemable, is to have their magic stripped from them and then to be cast out from the sorcerer community, never to be interacted with again. Personally, you would take Wong's offer.

But then, Mordo is not you.

It happens with a quiet **snap** _ **,**_ an utterly innocuous sound in comparison to the actions that accompany it. Mordo goes up in a blaze of fiery golden sparks, magic exploding from every pore. The relic that was entrapping him falls to the floor, charred, and then Mordo lunges forwards with a speed that should not be within his abilities.

He is aiming for you, because of course he is - but before he can make contact, the grip on your sleeve clamps down, a sudden jerk hauls you out of the way, and much to your surprise, Elise puts herself in Mordo's path instead.

 _GO!_ She snarls, as Mordo's hand lands on her shoulder and a stream of gold begins to channel out of Elise and into him. She then proceeds to grab Mordo's head in a vice grip and introduce it repeatedly - and violently - to her knee. Given that she is old enough to be your mother, this looks disproportionately backwards. You waste precious seconds gaping at her.

 _Stephen Strange I swear by the Vishanti that if you are not out that door and putting distance between yourself and this maniac within the next ten seconds-!_ Elise begins, but you know better than to let her finish the threat. Even without her magic, stolen as it is, Elise is not someone you want to cross.

Why is it that everyone you know is inherently terrifying?

You sprint from the room with Wong hot on your heels, then take to the air as the Cloak lifts you off the ground. Elise, as competent as she is, will only last so long without her magic against someone who has the power of multiple sorcerers backing him, and you have not thought of a plan to take Mordo down yet. All he needs to steal power is a touch, how do you defend against that?

...Wait.

You come to a screeching halt in the middle of a doorway, thoughts flying through your head. Mordo is stealing magic.

So where is it all going?

There is a plan forming in your head, one that is stupid and dangerous and literally going to end the sorcerer world as you know it if you are wrong. But if you are right…

Wong, who backtracked to your side when you stopped, is watching your face with the normal, powered-down version of his mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression. You can already tell that he knows you are thinking of doing something stupid.

 _It really can't get much worse_ , you say before Wong can make any pre-explanation objections. He eyes you, then lets out a heavy sigh.

 _I hope you know what you are doing,_ he tells you.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are about make what may be, to date, the worst decision of your life.

* * *

 **Y'all thought I was joking about being back on track, huh? Well hah! Joke's on you!**

 **Anyways. Stephen is about to Do a Dumb, Mordo has Motives, Wong proves yet again that he is definitively The Most Terrifying character, and Elise continues to be a lot more awesome than I thought she was. Which, given that I made her, should probably concern me more than it does.**

 **Now, if I'm plotting this right, the next chapter is gonna be** _ **fun**_ **.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to** **CalmSheJaguar for Favoriting/Following!**


	32. Chapter 32

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are trembling. Well - your hands are always trembling. But right now, your hands are just part of the trembling whole.

Your plan is incredibly, astoundingly stupid, but it is also the best (and only) plan you have. It could either go utterly right, or horribly wrong, and quite honestly the balance is on a razor's edge.

You are going to wait here, in this room, for Mordo to find you. And then you are going to let him take your magic.

Incredibly, astoundingly stupid. But also the best plan you have.

And it is for all these reasons that you have not said a single word of your plan out loud to Wong. In fact, you have encouraged Wong to evacuate the rest of the sorcerer community while you and Mordo have this showdown.

(Is it still a sorcerer community if all the sorcerers are no longer able to sorcerize? It seems like a valid question, but then again not one you have the time to ponder.)

Wong, of course, is highly disinclined to listen to you, and even less disinclined to leave you to your own devices against Mordo. In fact, if it were not for his own magic being stolen as well, you are fairly certain that Wong would fixing you with his recently-patented 'Stephen, do not be an idiot' subset Look of his usual mistreated-book/favorite-apple expression and adamantly ignoring your suggestions.

The problem lies in that this is exactly what has happened to Wong's magic, which makes him little more than a bystander at best and an outright hindrance at worst if Mordo were to come through that door right now with all his fury blazing. After all, there is nothing quite so outclassed as a mortal facing a deity.

(Wong would slap you for the comparison, but right now… well, it is almost awkwardly true. Especially since, if Wong had his power, it would undeniably be the other way around.)

But, this is how things are, and so Wong (extremely grudgingly) accepts your points about a magic-less man trying to help in a magic fight. He leaves the room with a pointed finger and a gruff, _You are not allowed to die here, understand?_

You blink, flabbergasted, as Wong shuts the door behind him without another word. By the Vishanti, you swear absently. Wong cares.

Well - you suppose that you knew this, somewhere deep down, but. He's never said it so outrightly before. Before now it's always been unspoken and stuffed into things like cooking lessons, Sorcerer Supreme nominations, tea recommendations, and the slow transfer of scorn-for-your-ignorance from you onto Tony Stark, whenever Tony happens to be around.

It's nice, to know that he cares enough to say it out loud. You should think about returning the favor.

...If you get the chance. Because again, this plan is incredibly, astoundingly stupid, and there are more ways it could go wrong than right. It hinges entirely on a random observation you made and what you think is how magic cores work.

Granted, all of your hypotheses are rooted in your own experiences. So it's entirely possible that Mordo reacts differently than you do, and you are staking your hopes on a figment of imagination. You really hope that isn't the case.

Worries aside, your plan basically amounts to this: the body has a set limit, more or less, of how large one's core can be and how much magic said core can hold. You know this because you shattered your limit when you bargained with Dormammu, and the recovery took literal weeks (and a great deal of utterly disgusting tea). You are actually the only currently-living example of a survivor of this sort of thing - which is to say, it has been done before, but only rarely, and long enough ago that the woman in question long since passed away of old age. Most people who shatter their body's limit don't always… recover. This is why you are currently the only living example.

The thing is, all the magic you have - and you have a lot \- is still your magic. It is still the power produced by your own core; it always has been, and it always will be. There might be a quantity imbalance from time to time, but it is always yours. But Mordo is actively taking the magic of other people, absorbing someone else's power into his own. Maybe his own power is great enough that he can handle that sort of shock to his system. Maybe he has enough magic of his own to take what he steals and twist it into a reflection of his own core.

But the thing is - your core? However large Mordo's is, yours is at least twice that size. That much influx of an invasive power, plus the strain coming from a larger source of magic alone?

If you're calculating this right - albeit a bit up to suspect because magic is not the most easily measurable thing - then trying to take your magic is the worst thing Mordo could do to himself. Which, of course, means that this is exactly what Mordo is going to do.

How can you guess that? Well, Mordo is emotionally compromised. And from personal experience, the people who let their emotions get the better of them tend to make very stupid decisions.

Right on cue, almost as if you summoned him, Mordo breaks down the door with a power whip. There is a moment where he almost doesn't register that you are there and begins to move on to what you assume will be the next door, only to stop halfway through the motion and narrow his eyes at you. Curiously, you peer past him to the hallway; the door behind him, on the other side of the passageway, is similarly torn from its hinges. If you had to guess, you would say that the rest of the doors also match.

If nothing else, Mordo is at least thorough.

 _Accepting your fate?_ He asks as he steps into the room with you. He noticeably - purposefully - blocks off the door with his body, no doubt thinking to prevent your escape.

 _Of a sort_ , you reply. You eye his face; he looks distinctly worse for wear. Unsurprising, given that Elise slammed her knee into his nose several consecutive times. You ask if Mordo likes the souvenirs she gave him. Mordo responds by sparking shields on his fists and throwing them at your head.

You dodge on instinct, and then the whole confrontation dissolves into combat. For all that you are intending to finish this by letting Mordo win, there is still the self-preservation reaction to deal with. It is evidently a very difficult thing to convince oneself to stand still and let the incoming attack hit you in the face. After about five attempts to do so, and five consecutive failures, you decide that a new tactic is needed.

So this time, you dodge, but intentionally throw yourself into Mordo, as opposed to away. You also make sure to paste an expression of panic to your face, to try and better sell the idea that you have made a mistake in your movements.

And it works; either because Mordo does not care, or is simply too convinced of his own victory to consider how out of character a mistake like this is for you, it's hard to say. But, just like you knew he would, he plants a triumphant hand on the skin of your neck and then-

It's hard to describe how it feels. There is a hook, of sorts, embedding into the deepest part of you and pulling. Only… not very strongly, or quickly. 'Dragging' might be a more accurate term, you decide. To be fair, you do have a lot of magic, which Mordo is apparently trying to take all at once. He's going to have to try a bit harder than this, though, if he wants to accomplish anything in any sort of decent time span.

Briefly, you ponder the wisdom of continuing with the plan. You could, by all means, keep letting Mordo struggle. The first streaks of gold are beginning to leave your body and enter his, but Mordo is exerting enough effort to do so that his skin is beginning to bead with sweat again. Quite possibly, were you to put up resistance, Mordo would tire himself to exhaustion, at which point it would probably be an easy matter to subdue him.

But then, you think about all your fellow sorcerers, stripped of their power in what you are now realizing was one of the most invasive ways imaginable. You think about what the Ancient One saw in Mordo to take him under her wing, and how that potential is undoubtedly blackened beyond repair by now. You think about the sheer betrayal Mordo has committed, to turn on the community he once called home and the people he once called friends, or maybe even family. And you look at Mordo, whose teeth are bared in a snarl of effort and concentration and whose eyes hold none of the humor or lightness of the man you once knew.

Contemplation turns to resolve.

You reach up and clamp your own hand around Mordo's, trapping his fingers on your neck. You feel for the 'hook' digging into your core and follow the connection up and out, tracing a path through both your bodies until you find Mordo's power on the other end. Already it feels swollen and unstable, several signatures swirling around in one core - or at least, it seems that way to you.

And then you take your own core in both mental hands and throw it at Mordo's.

The small stream of gold passing between your body and his suddenly turns to a raging flood. The 'hook' gets jarred loose and lost; and with it, so does Mordo's control of the situation. The first thing you do is to magically seal his hand in place, because your own are shaky and unreliable and this needs physical contact to keep going, and relying on your own faulty fingers is not the best plan in a situation such as this. Your magic rushes through the contact point with all the delicacy of a waterfall in monsoon season, and you actually have to reign it in a little bit, lest you burn Mordo out right then and there.

This is the reason you have never been especially forthcoming with how large your core actually is, with how much magic you actually have. There is basically no real comparison you can make that will allow other people to understand. You sustained over a thousand iterations of a time loop, while maintaining several other spells, providing the base magic requirements for the Eye and the Cloak to be active, and shielding yourself from the adverse effects of the Dark Dimension - all at the same time, when your core and magic capabilities were not equipped to be doing any such thing. Now, though? You could do all of that again, with ease. You could do it twice, if you really tried.

How much magic does that take? Honestly, you don't know. There is no convenient measure of you can use, or any set standard that you have been able to find. But it is blatantly clear that Mordo's core physically cannot take the full force of what you can give, and right now? That's all you need to know.

It takes just seconds for you to completely turn Mordo's attempted invasion around, and then just a few seconds more to swamp his magic with your own. The only thing keeping his core intact is your own self-control; just a little pressure, and the whole thing will shatter.

But, you are not trying to shatter it.

With efficient movements, you withdraw your magic from Mordo's core - but yours is not the only power you take. Ensnared in your own core now is every trace of magic that Mordo stole, as well as everything he didn't. You leave Mordo's core empty and completely barren; no magic, no power, nothing. It is exactly what he did to your fellow sorcerers, and so you feel that it's probably a fitting fate for him, too.

You really hope you don't have to keep it, though. Mordo's magic feels distinctly uncomfortable where it is wrapped up in your own. (Really, they all do - how Mordo managed it, you have no idea. But Mordo's power comes with mental baggage, so it automatically has more awareness in your head.)

You release the hold keeping Mordo attached to you, and he immediately drops to the ground, looking understandably shell-shocked. You, on the other hand, make your way to a chair before collapsing. Your core is now dealing with an influx of far more magic than what was sent out, and while you vaguely thought this might happen, that doesn't mean you were prepared for it. There is excess magic for several dozen people sharing space with your own right now, and while you certainly have enough core capacity for it - or, at least, have the history of developing more as needed - it's not pleasant.

Your train of thought is abruptly derailed as Wong rushes in through the broken door, with several other former-sorcerers behind him. You give him a half-hearted glare. _So much for evacuation,_ you accuse weakly.

Wong ignores your jibe, and instead steps close to your chair. He crouches down and stares you in the eye for a solid fifteen seconds before his own widen incementially. You can already tell that he knows what you did.

 _Oh good,_ you say, somewhat hazily _. I don't have to explain this, then_. And with that, you slap a hand to Wong's shoulder, grab the magic from your core that feels like 'his', and shove it through the connection with absolutely none of the reverence and ceremony that the returning of someone's magic probably deserves. Your hand blazes gold for a moment as the magic passes through; then Wong's shoulder lights up. You watch the color trace throughout Wong's entire body before fading away, and you nod to yourself when you notice that the strain on your own core is now just a little bit less, with the absence of one of the invasive signatures.

Unfortunately, though, your body picks that exact moment to give up on consciousness.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and returning everyone's stolen magic to them is apparently going to have to wait a little while longer.

* * *

 **Today I learned that 'sorcerize' is, indeed, a word. "Sorcerize: to transform by sorcery." (Thanks to the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary.) It's actually a pretty rare word, squarely in the bottom ten percent of popular usage. But hey, sorcery has a verb form, apparently. ~The More You Know~**

 **Moving on - my gosh, this chapter was a doozy. Consider it collateral for all those months where I posted exactly nothing, I guess. I might have actually hit a new word count for this chapter, but then again I had a lot of interesting things to describe. Also, I haven't actually checked, but I'm sure it's up there with the larger ones. I'm sure at least one of you readers saw something like this coming, but I hope that I at least made it interesting to read.**

 **Next time, I think we're back to the Sorcerer Supreme test. Maybe I can finally get around to the results within the next couple chapters. I honestly think I've been dragging it out for… what, a year, by this point? Yikes.**

 **Changeling**


	33. Chapter 33

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you have no idea what you are looking for.

Stripping a sorcerer of their magic is not exactly an unusual occurrence, although usually it's used as a punishment inflicted by the Sorcerer Supreme. To that effect, there are 'holders', of sorts, that the magic is put into once removed from the wielder.

You, much to your distaste, are still holding Mordo's magic within your own core, and you would dearly like to be rid of it, thanks very much. You've already returned everyone else's power; Mordo's is the last one left, and for some reason this makes it all the more uncomfortable. You really want it gone. The only problem is that you can't just release it, otherwise it will wander around and eventually find its way back to Mordo. So you have to contain it, and to do that you need one of the containers made specifically for this purpose.

Which means you need to find one, first. And you have absolutely no idea what these things look like.

It takes an embarrassingly long time to locate, made all the more awkward by the fact that everyone else is watching you run around in circles. Part of it is that nobody else is quite as familiar with the New York Sanctum as you and Wong are - and Wong is busy staring down Mordo because nobody else is brave enough to do it. (This is despite the fact that Mordo is very much without his magic, is currently being held in place by approximately eight dozen thread-of-cords, and looks more like a trussed-up cocoon than a major threat to the community.) Thus, the task falls to you, and consequently takes you a full forty-five minutes even with the Cloak floating around and poking into various out-of-reach corners in an attempt to help.

But eventually, your quarry is found. It doesn't look like something built to contain magic; rather, it looks a more like a box. A carved-stone box that is almost entirely black save for a few scattered flecks of pale gray fractals embedded in the rock (and now that you think about it, maybe 'box' isn't the most apt description of something that has been so clearly shaped with such exacting detail), but a box nonetheless.

You have long since learned to never take things for face-value in the sorcerer community, but you are still not expecting the literal black-hole-vacuum that the box contains. Even more odd is the fact that you can only feel the pull in your power core; you suspect, that if you did not have magic, you wouldn't feel anything at all. But since you can, and since the grip of the box is startlingly strong, you shove Mordo's magic at it before any of your own can be taken and slam the lid back down the moment you feel the last of Mordo's power leave your own core.

In the cocoon, Mordo makes a strangled sound of loss. You avoid meeting his gaze as you lock the box with a sealing spell and then slip the whole thing into the Mirror Dimension. It's not hard to imagine what Mordo must be feeling right now, but you're also not sure you should be sympathetic. This is the man who just tried to eliminate the entire sorcerer community in one fell swoop, after all.

He won't be released. He's probably going to be a prisoner, more or less, for the rest of his life. The sorcerer community operates on a strict policy of secrecy and isolationism - in simple terms, the less people that know magic exists, the better. In fact, if sorcerers as a whole had their way, Bruce Banner would be mind-wiped and kicked out of the Sanctum, Thor would be bound into a contract to prevent him talking about his experiences with sorcerers, and Tony Stark…

Tony would probably turn out to be immune to the mind-wipe, and would then mysteriously 'disappear' two days later, turn up on the other side of the world with complete amnesia, and spend the rest of his life in therapy relearning basic skills like speech and walking.

Fortunately, the Ancient One had a much more reasonable approach to the secrecy policy, and nobody is stupid enough to go against one of the last remaining traces of her presence. Mordo is currently the only example of this, and he's trussed up in a magic cocoon with all his power stripped from him. It's not necessarily a coincidence.

The point is, Mordo will be kept within the sorcerer community, under constant surveillance. Too dangerous to turn loose, equally too dangerous to keep. He's not going to have a nice life from now on.

Honestly? You're not sure how to feel about it. You need time to process it all. Probably, in a week or two, once you've actually recovered and compartmentalized everything, you'll track Mordo down and have that Talk that never happened. But until then…

Until then, you're going to go home, make dinner, choke down whatever sort of abomination disguised as tea that Wong is going to force you to drink as compensation for whatever stress he feels you've put your power core through this time, and go to sleep. Yes, you think, sleep sounds like a good idea.

(Maybe if you can get to bed fast enough, Wong won't be able to make you drink the tea until tomorrow.)

* * *

Unfortunately, the very first thing that Wong does upon squaring everything away and getting Mordo taken care of, is make you drink the tea. It is just as disgusting as you remember it being.

He still won't let you throw it away.

 _(It has valuable medicinal properties, Stephen,_ he scolds. Well, so does a scalpel under the right circumstances, but at least people have the decency to use anesthesia in addition to that. This tea really ought to come with sugar or  something.)

(Wong gives you the Look he apparently feel that suggestion deserves.)

You choke down the tea and quickly move on to dinner, if only to get the taste out of your mouth. You're still trying to master soup, because Wong still managed to find at least a dozen-odd things with your successful chicken-tortilla soup from several weeks ago and at this point it's just a point of pride now. You always did have too much pride. You like to think you're doing better, that your relics at least can help reign you in. You know for a fact that just being around Wong and his utter no-nonsense personality has assisted with this tremendously. But 'entirely humble' is something that you will never be, and you know this. But you're trying to channel your air of superiority into things that are less toxic to both yourself and those around you. Cooking, at least, ends with a meal for the house.

Because you are still exhausted and have very little desire to remain awake for longer than necessary, you make cheese soup this time. It's relatively simple, as far as soup goes. There's only a few things needing chopping (onions, carrot, celery, garlic, the aromatics that you are beginning to recognize as 'the usuals'), and then you can just dump it all in with some veggie broth and let the thing simmer for a while. Or at least, that's what the recipe you are using tells you.

Admittedly, you have used a recipe from a cookbook before, but you would only just glance at the title. The resulting 'meal' would be the result of you extrapolating what you thought the food was made of from what it was called. This had questionable results, such as that baking-soda-instead-of-flour disaster of a few months prior.

Now, though, you are actually following the directions, as opposed to trying to cook on your own invention. The Sanctum apparently has a vast wealth of cookbooks, now that you are paying attention to these sorts of things. Well - you knew there were cookbooks, because you went through them back when you were re-organizing the library. But for some reason it didn't occur to you that they were for actually cooking. Now that you've been clued in - thanks to an exasperated Wong - you're already making progress. It turns out that people use broth in soup, both for the liquid component and for flavor. You've been using water for every batch of soup before this, which in hindsight probably explains how thin they all were and how you could never seem to get the flavors any stronger than 'mildly present'. Wong, you think to yourself smugly, is going to be so impressed.

* * *

Wong applauds your proper use of a cookbook (finally), and then promptly informs you that he won't acknowledge you as an actual cook until you can invent your own recipes from scratch, without having to rely on someone else's. This, of course, sparks an hours-long debate. Isn't cooking literally just building on what someone else has already figured out, you argue?

In the end, Wong shuts you down with a single question. _Did you stray from the printed recipe in any way when you made this?_ He asks. You frown, but have to shake your head. You followed the instructions religiously.

 _You did not cook_, Wong says, and there is a slight hint of victory in his voice, of all things. _You copied._ And while that is all well and good for most people, while there is nothing truly wrong with that, he knows you hold yourself to a higher standard than just using other people's recipes.

You go to bed cursing the fact that you know that he knows that he's right. Your perfectionist habits were going to come back and bite you one of these days.

* * *

You greet the next morning with your face hovering over the bowl of a toilet and a violently upset stomach. In between bouts of retching, you feel largely offended. That soup was perfectly fine! Really, out of all the things that have come out of your questionable cooking, that soup was probably the least questionable. The fact that you managed to get food poisoning from this meal of all things seems like a vicious twist of irony.

 _It's not food poisoning,_ Wong tells you, as your stomach decides to give you a break and you let yourself slide miserably to the tile floor. Really? Because it sure feels that way.

Wong just gives you his favorite-book/mistreated-apple expression and slides a page of paper towards you. Read, he instructs, and sits back to wait as you begin to skim the words.

Two minutes later you look up from the paper, eyebrows scrunched together and incredulity written all over your face and say, _Are you serious._

 _Admittedly, I am a bit surprised it has taken this long to kick in,_ Wong replies. _But yes. This is, as you say, serious business._

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are taking extreme offense to the fact that, apparently, magic is making your body unable to digest normal food.

* * *

 **Y'all remember those food consequences I mentioned waaaaay back in, like chapter twelve or something? BOOM. *drops mic***

 **In all seriousness, this particular side-plot has been a long time coming, and I'm glad I could finally work it in. Somehow I managed to bump back the Sorcerer Supreme stuff though… again…**

 **I swear, I'll get to it eventually.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to erickluiz69 and grape500 for Favoriting/Following!**


	34. Chapter 34

Your name is Stephen Strange, and there is a rather large chance that you might be sick again.

Somehow, the sorcerer community at large has entirely failed to inform you that, because magic is not necessarily a thing of human origin, and you are a human trying to use it, magic will make some 'alterations' to the host body to allow for better compatibility. Conveniently, or inconveniently, all these alterations are of the internal variety, meaning there won't be any of that unfortunate mutant racism being directed at you. What it also means, though, is that your internal organs have been undergoing renovations, and evidently have just finished up.

In shorter words, your stomach is no longer physically able to digest normal human food.

You have a problem with this.

(What was even the point of learning how to cook perfectly normal soup if you can't even eat it?)

You also have a problem with the bowl full of… stuff, that Wong has set in front of you as an example of what your new diet will consist of. It's concerningly violet, appears to contain tentacles, and may or may not still be moving. The whole thing has the consistency of gelatin and jiggles with every vibration, which makes it rather hard to tell, but you swear you saw one of the pieces wave at you.

You look from the bowl of stuff to Wong's stoic face, and say, _You're_ _joking_ _._

 _I am not_ , Wong says.

You draw yourself up in what you feel is entirely righteous offense. Wong, you point out levelly, has been eating your dinner experiments for months now. There have been no purple tentacles in your dinner experiments. If, you say, pointing a triumphant finger, purple tentacles are apparently the only thing sorcerers can eat without repercussions, then how has Wong been consuming your food all this time?

' _Consuming' would be a strong word,_ Wong says, which manages to double as both an insult to your cooking skills and an explanation to your questions. And as you think back on it, you realize that he's right. Wong has only ever  tasted what you've made, never eaten it. He's swallowed just enough to give you his opinions on how it tastes and what you've done wrong, and then… he never takes any more.

But apples? You point out. Wong shrugs; they're apparently a guilty pleasure that he indulges in from time to time. He likens it to someone with a peanut allergy eating a Reeses and then promptly stabbing themselves with an EpiPen, except that the consequences are more of the 'puke your guts out' variety than the 'life-threatening hospital visit' variety. You squash down your ranting inner doctor and the list of all the ways that is a terrible analogy, because dragging Wong through a medical lecture isn't going to help anything right now. (But if anything, he should have used indigestion. That would have been a much better example.)

Then your brain lands on another point, and you ask, _But what about the tea?_

 _Why do you think we drink so much of it?_ Wong says, which is how you learn that tea is, for some reason, the only thing sorcerers can drink without throwing it all back up thirty minutes later.

You process that, then look back at the bowl of concerningly violet tentacles. One of them is definitely waving at you.

It takes approximately four seconds for you to decide that you are not going to resign yourself to eating alien squid goop for the rest of your life. As a result, your meal consists of three cups of absently-downed tea and a miniscule amount of very plain toast, accompanied by a literal tower of nutrition and culinary books.

If tea is safe, then there must be something _in_ tea that makes it safe. Logically then, tea must share something with the purple tentacles, which are (somehow) also safe. Therefore, if you can find that common denominator, you can work it into the normal human recipes for normal human food, and never have to eat a tentacle, ever, for as long as you live.

It is very important to you that tentacles remain outside of your body.

Wong sees your expression, sighs, and pulls the bowl of concerningly violet goop over to his side of the table instead. No sense wasting good food, he tells you.

* * *

You spend the next morning utterly entrenched in the library, pursuing your newfound Food Quest. Not that you weren't invested in learning to cook before, because you were, but - now you have incentive. The fate of your taste buds depends on this. And because you are concentrating so very intently, you completely fail to notice that you have company until Elise clears her throat loudly and pointedly. You promptly startle a solid inch out of your chair.

Elise, in her typical blunt fashion, ignores this and gets straight to the point by saying, _I withdrew from candidacy_.

You waste a valuable three seconds just staring at her, before your brain kicks into gear and you immediately try to talk her back into it. She was your last hope to not be chosen. Not that you were actively trying to throw the results, not anymore, but - well, if one of the other candidates just proved to be a better choice, then… it wasn't your fault.

Elise, however, is unmoved. _Which one of us took down Mordo?_ She asks, entirely rhetorically. Which one restored everyone's magic? Which one prevented the collapse of the entire sorcerer community? Because, she finished, crossing her arms with finality, it wasn't her.

You take a moment to recite a lot of unprintable words inside your head, mostly directed at your still-developing sense of justice and 'The Right Thing' and your inability to exert impulse control on it. Then you say, _You came all the way here just to tell me four words?_

Added bonus, Elise says, and shrugs. She knew your face would be hilarious. No, she's here to enroll as the New York Sanctum's newest initiate.

Once again, you waste three solid seconds just… staring. (Yes, the Sanctums were taking on new students again and yes, Wong occasionally held classes here, but none of them had stayed.)

 _...Why?_ You ask incredulously.

She flashes you a smile, which automatically makes you nervous. Elise only smiles when she means it, is genuinely amused, or has a Plan. Most of the time she's fairly reserved with her emotions.

 _Well, you're the Sorcerer Supreme, aren't you,_ she says, dropping the title on your head as if it  isn't something incredibly mind-blowing that will probably require five cups of tea and a lengthy coping session to come to terms with. _And since we both know that there's a moron underneath that medical IQ and sorcery prowess, I figured Wong might like the help in keeping you on track._ Besides…

She used to belong to the London Sanctum, until Kaecilius wiped it out, Elise tells you in a softer and more vulnerable voice than you have ever heard from her before. You ask her how she survived, but all she says is, _Dumb luck_ , with clipped and frighteningly concise diction, and moves on. The Sorcerer Supreme candidacy had been a chance to start over - a new position, a new Sanctum, a way to leave the memories of the desolation of her home behind. She's not changed her mind about that, but - she has decided that there is more than one way to start over.

And anyways, the New York Sanctum needs initiates, she tells you firmly. It's ridiculous to think that one man and his occasional mentor can maintain the upkeep of an entire building on their own. You raise an eyebrow at this, because you are of the opinion that you've been doing rather well.

Elise promptly bursts this bubble by swiping her fingers along a bookshelf and dislodging an entire cloud of dust and a startled house-spider.

 _I'll have the Chores List typed up and posted by this time tomorrow,_ she tells you sweetly.

* * *

Elise spends the rest of the day staking out the New York Sanctum and deciding which room will be hers, and the Sanctum is just large enough that you know you won't see her again for several hours. You take this time to barricade yourself behind locked doors, sit firmly down on the bed, and have a minor panic session about the fact that you, for some baffling, Dormammu-forsaken reason, are the Sorcerer Supreme now.

You take several deep breaths. The Cloak may or may not be in use as a shock blanket.

It's not official. It probably won't be for several more days. But the fact remains that, without Elise as competition, you are the only candidate left. And with the resume you've inadvertently accumulated for yourself (Kaecilius, Dormammu, possibly Loki-and-Hela, Mordo), and the fact that Wong of all people recommended you, it's all but guaranteed.

There's no getting out of it now. You take several more deep breaths.

You're going to need to talk to Christine again. Christine always had a better handle on your emotions than you ever did. You pause in your stressing to shoot her an email asking to meet up tomorrow; you should have some time around dinner, maybe you could treat her.

That done, you resume your stressing.

It isn't that you feel unprepared, or unqualified, or even unworthy - your first talk with Christine helped solve those issues weeks ago. And granted, having acknowledged that, you're not quite sure anymore what is actually is that you're stressing about. Perhaps it's the responsibility, the importance that this position will give you. There is no higher role in the sorcerer community than the Sorcerer Supreme, and the thought of yourself filling that spot is…

Nauseating.

And maybe that's the cheese you ate at lunch talking, but look what happened when you were the head surgeon of just one hospital. Look at what happened when you were the top surgeon of your entire field. Look at what happened when you were the top medical professional in every country of the world (except Wakanda, but to be fair they have recently revealed themselves as so ridiculously advanced in comparison to the rest of the world that it hardly even merits a reaction).

Christine assured you that it won't happen again, and you believe her when she says so, because she believes herself. But… you're not sure that you believe it for yourself _._

How ironic, to have come so far and still be so afraid of falling right back down again.

You take yet another deep breath. The Cloak pats your shoulders reassuringly.

It will be okay, you tell yourself determinedly. You have people to keep you on track now. You have Wong and Christine, and now Elise seems to have joined that group as well. You have Bruce and Thor, and maybe even Tony (although Tony is hard to assess even on the best of days). You have the Cloak, and you have the Eye, and the Eye at least is fully capable of and willing to trap you in a time loop until you stop being a jerk. The Cloak is… less capable, but it does do a very convincing boa constrictor impression and would probably have no qualms whatsoever about trapping you until your behavior changes.

See, you reassure yourself, you have people. And sentient accessories, but the point is that you have a safety net system. They'll catch you if you fall.

You let out your deep breath slowly, and feel some of the tension leach from your body.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and you are the Sorcerer Supreme.

* * *

 **I swear that the food sorcerers can actually eat** _ **genuinely**_ **looks like purple tentacles and, it like, wiggles and stuff. If any of you readers out there thinks it sounds like hentai, it is NOT my fault. (Get your mind out of the gutter, we're in a wholesome Doctor Strange fic with fluff and cuddles from a sentient swath of fabric. There shall be none of that squicky stuff here.)**

 **Man, I've got a lot of threads running now. Christine, whatever ceremony these people use to swear in a new Supreme, Stephen's food issue, Mordo, that totally unresolved thing with Loki and Hela that I left dangling back in chapter twenty-five or something, Bruce's continued roomate status… and of course, connecting it all to Infinity War and the rapidly-impending Endgame.**

 ***Cracks knuckles* Time to start stitching it all together.**

 **Changeling**

* * *

 **Thanks to Moonunit, Russia's Magic Pipe, Astrid Peters, CureCaligraphy, and Readaholic01 for Favoriting/Following!**


	35. Houston We Have a Problem: Author's Note

Hey, everyone.

So, real quick, I got some Stuff to tell you all. I am currently writing to you from a laptop that has, at most, six months left to live. And that's the optimistic estimate.

Basically, my logic board is shot and the video processor is about two steps away from dying, and neither of these things are parts that the parent company makes anymore (my laptop is a 2013 model, if that helps it make sense). I can only make my laptop start in SafeBoot mode, and if I do anything too strenuous it immediately crashes on me. Like, full-scale, had-to-take-it-to-an-IT-guy crashes.

Long story short, I will not be updating anytime soon. I actively need to buy a new computer, because the one I'm using right now is living on borrowed time, and bluntly put I don't trust it to handle uploading important chapters to the internet.

Also, have y'all _seen_ the prices on new laptops nowadays? I'm gonna have to drop like, two or three grand if I want anything reasonably decent. _Sheesh_. I can hear my bank account crying already.

TL;DR – my laptop crashed, the problem is unfixable, and the whole thing is gonna hit perma-death anytime from about a week to six months from now. In the meantime in between time of me getting a new one, story updates will not be happening.

Not a hiatus. Also not a break. With any luck, I'll be able to get back to writing within a week or two. Until then, wish me luck. (And if you _desperately_ need a writing fix, maybe go back and re-read?)

Changeling


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